So I just realised why James is so insistent that Silver making people believe something doesn’t make it true. Because if it is true, then England making the world believe that he is a monster makes him one. In the same way that he believes England is not inevitable, he believes that the power of the stories that he and Silver both use has limits:
It is natural for men new to power to assume that it has no limits. Trust me. It does.
And I think that the root of their different perceptions of how important this is has a lot to do with the effect that the stories told about them had on them. Silver said he was:
No one. From nowhere. Belonging to nothing.
But the stories told about him made him a King; gave him power, respect, and love. Whereas James already had those things – Thomas calls him:
A rising star with a bright future in the Admiralty.
Yet because of the stories told about him and his relationship with the Hamiltons, he lost all of that.
Once it had been applied to Thomas, once our relationship had been exposed, defiled, scandalised… everything ended.
Yes, James does use stories like Silver does – but not against people he cares about. And he doesn’t ever seem to believe that other people believing his stories makes them real – he actually seems to reject that idea.
In season 1, Silver says:
Guilt is natural. It also goes away if you let it.
That’s obviously not true, and I think on a deeper level, even he knows that – but he seems determined to believe that it’s possible to just let go of things like that; guilt, his past, etc. which perhaps explains why he seems to think it’s possible that Billy, James and Madi could forgive him for what he did to them in s4. But they can’t let go of their past experiences – of what he did to them – and honestly, I don’t think that he can either.
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Black Sails Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: James McGraw, Thomas Hamilton, Admiral Hennessey Additional Tags: Wherein fun is had with snow, wherein James and Thomas are fiends, and Admiral Hennessey has wicked aim with a snowball, bitty James and Thomas, continuation of Good Fortune Attend, AU, Pre-Canon, Found family fic, Fluff Fic, Tooth-Rotting Fluff Series: Part 2 of To Drive the Cold Winter Away Summary:
Thomas had always loved the sound of snow falling off of something. He loved the gentle silence of it. He loved the sound it made when it landed on more of itself, but most of all –
Most of all he loved the sound it made when it hit the back of Admiral Hennessey’s unprotected neck.
before black sails i don’t think i truly noticed how rage in media is portrayed, as amoral at best, as invalidating of social stances, as all equal and all equally indicative of a Bad irrational character, rage is for the villains or rage is something someone good succumbs to and then has to repent for, there is no such thing as rightful anger, doesn’t matter what systemic horrors you’ve suffered, if you shout you’ve already lost, if you shout you’re just as bad as your oppressors, and that is horrifying
on rage still: i remember a post that essentially talked about how great it is that flint is allowed gay anger, and i was thinking about how there’s even more to that than being allowed to be angry, he isn’t degraded by it, defined by it, moved into a new box because of it, ideals are not invalidated by it, by which i mean all of this happens but not in the narrative of the show, it happens in the narrative various other characters within the show weave about james flint, around him, and you see them do it, and you see the threads and the craftsmanship in detail, and you see it affect flint himself, but it’s not the show’s, the show is the creation of it and not the narrative itself, the show is as usual the story of the story, the show tells you look, this is happening, this is how it happens, this is how in stories villains are queercoded, this is how in history gay people are invisible or monsters
“James,” Miranda says in a strangled tone, “you need to come to your cabin. Now. Right now.”
“Miranda – what the hell do you think you’re doing? The crew are restless enough as it is – if they think I’m doing any of this at your direction -”
“James, I do not ask much of you, but on this one occasion, I’m going to have to ask you to stop talking and just – just come with me. Please,” she repeats. “I think – I’m afraid I may have lost my mind.”
Her face is white, James sees suddenly. Utterly pale, and her hands shake. Her mouth is pressed in a tight line – she darts a glance at Abigail, still writing on deck, and then back to him, and –
He does not think he has ever seen her look so frightened – save, perhaps, for the first time he had come home with an infected wound, all but delirious, and even that is a hazy memory now, eight years on.
“Miranda, what the hell’s going on?” he asks, taking hold of her elbow and turning her away from the watching eyes of his crew. “What’s happened?”
She does not answer – only shakes her head, still tight-lipped, and he is startled again to realize that she is attempting to hold back tears, her chin not quite wobbling but held in that way he knows she does when she is attempting not to weep, and he hates that he has driven her to that point so often that he knows just by looking at her.
“Alright,” he says. “I’m coming. Mr. Scott!”
Eleanor’s former advisor turns, and James meets his gaze squarely.
“I’m needed in my cabin, it seems. See to it that the provisions are stowed in the hold and the men are told to hold her closer to the wind once we’ve cleared the bay – we’ve got the luxury of a fore-and-aft rig on the mizzen, I intend to make use of it.”
“Yes, Captain.”
He heeds Miranda’s insistent tug at his elbow, and turns back toward his cabin, moving swiftly now. They do not speak again – he knows Miranda will not welcome questions, not until they are in private, not until –
The door creaks closed behind them, and he turns to her.
“What’s all this about?” he asks. “You’ve got my attention, if that’s what you were after. We both know you’re no more insane than anyone on this island, so what -?”
Miranda swallows hard.
“James,” she says, “look around this cabin, and tell me – tell me truly – if you see nothing amiss.”
James frowns. This is not like Miranda. This is not the level-headed woman he has come to know over the past ten years, and if she is truly this shaken –
He allows his gaze to roam the cabin. Everything seems to be in its place. The desk is still in the center of the room, the books on their shelves – there is no extra table, here, and for a moment he feels again the stab of agony that comes with the realization that he does not need the extra furniture – not anymore. There will never be another Hal – if he plays his cards right on this voyage, there will never be another quartermaster, period. Dufresne, it seems, did as James asked before he fucked off for parts unknown – there are hammocks everywhere, and –
And in one of them, a man is sleeping, and James feels his heart stop in his chest, because –
“You see him,” Miranda says, her tone uncertain. “Don’t you? I cannot be the only one -”
“You’re not,” James croaks, and then feels anger fill him. “You’re not,” he repeats, “and he’s not. Thomas is gone, Miranda, you know that, I know that, there’s no need for -”
He’s been moving forward the entire time he’s been speaking. Whoever is in his hammock at this time of the day is about to get a rude awakening. He’s not certain which of the vanguard has the same sandy-colored hair, the same build, the same slope to his shoulders as Thomas, but James is very sure that man will be part of the vanguard no longer once he’s through with him, because this is not the time to be sleeping, and he won’t fight alongside a man who reminds him so much of – Thomas –
He cannot help the strangled keening noise that escapes him, or the way that his knees go weak, or the way that his hand reaches out to catch himself on the hammock as he falls toward the floor, disturbing the man in the hammock unceremoniously. He cannot help any of it, because the man lying there and now waking, flailing slightly as the hammock tips, is –
“Thomas,” Miranda whispers. “Thomas -”
Thomas sits up in the hammock, and looks about him – and sees James on the floor. He sees Miranda standing, frozen, just inside the doorway –
“James,” Thomas utters, and then he is scrambling out of the hammock, dropping to his knees, throwing his arms around James, who clings – clings because there is nothing else he can do, nothing else he can say, even. He is crying – there are tears running down his cheeks and he is sobbing, and he does not care, because here in front of him, clinging to him like a limpet in turn, is his Thomas. His face is bearded and his hands are rough but he is here, alive. Alive, not dead. Not driven to despair – not tormented and cold and alone –
“Move over,” Miranda orders, and then James is making room in his embrace, one hand still firmly clasped at the back of Thomas’ head and the other now wrapping around Miranda, who kneels on the floor next to them, and James is suddenly, bizarrely reminded of the few weddings he has been to – or perhaps of kneeling for communion, and it does not matter which it is, because he is home.
“You were dead,” he gasps, meeting Thomas’ gaze. “You were dead. Ashe – Peter Ashe, he told us -”
“He lied,” Thomas says firmly. “I have so much to tell you – I was so afraid you would sail before I could find you.” His hand tightens around James’ waist, and he pulls them both closer again. He is shaking, James realizes – with relief, or joy, or both, he is not certain.
“Does anyone know you’re here?” James asks, and Thomas shakes his head.
“No. Or – well, I suppose your quartermaster might recall, when he is -”
A knock sounds on the door – frantic, urgent, and James looks up.
“You stowed away,” he says incredulously, and Thomas’ cheeks color.
“I seem to have become quite adept at it,” he confesses. “You won’t believe what I had to do to get here.”
“Mr. Scott,” James calls, and the knocking stops.
“Captain?” Scott’s voice sounds from beyond the door, and James does not think he is imagining the wince in it, or the note of confusion.
“Tell the men I’m not to be disturbed for the next half day – and alter our course. We’re heading -”
“No we’re not.” Miranda has finally found her voice again. “No. I will see him answer for this. I will see him pay -”
Thomas’ hand comes to rest against her face. He reaches over, and draws his wife in for a gentle kiss to her forehead, his gaze serious.
“We all will,” he says. “I think it’s time we had a chat, Peter and I – a proper chat, and this time I don’t intend to be chained for it.”
His heart, he thinks, might just stop. His stomach is doing flips, because Thomas is here, and talking, and right now, he could propose they march into hell and James would agree and kiss him for suggesting it – for the mere fact that he is there to suggest it. By comparison, this seems positively reasonable.
“No alteration to our course,” he orders, his voice hoarse. “Let the first request stand.”
“Are you – alright?” Scott asks hesitantly. “If you need assistance -”
“If any of you try to assist me or rescue me, I’ll keelhaul you myself,” James snaps, and sees Thomas’ eyebrows shoot upward toward his hairline. “Just – leave us, please, Mr. Scott,” he requests, and hears the other man’s footsteps retreat from the door. He turns his attention back to Thomas. He’s thought, now, about kissing him, and he intends to follow through.
“Hello, love,” Thomas says softly, and kisses him, and James allows any other worries to melt away for the moment. They can all wait.
Bonus Epilogue:
If he never, ever hears the sound of a cicada ever again, it will be too soon.
In the ten years he has been enslaved or imprisoned, Thomas Hamilton has developed a healthy hatred for insects of all kinds. He is not enamored of their singing – still less of their tendency to bite or sting him, and he cannot wait for the day that he moves somewhere he will never again hear the particular species native to the Carolina colony. This day, he hopes, will bring him closer to that goal. It will, at least provide closure of a sort. He has a bone to pick with Peter Ashe.
“His Lordship is not expecting you,” the officious little man at the gate says, surprise clear on his face. Thomas fights against the sudden urge to snap at him. It is not this man’s fault that his master is a vile, wretched excuse for a man, nor can he help that James’ appearance seems to terrify him. His lover appears to have that effect on people now – Thomas cannot imagine why, as the earring he wears is quite dashing and his clothing not all that outlandish, but he is not above benefiting from it.
“Tell the Lord Governor that Lady Hamilton and James McGraw are here to see him,” Thomas instructs. “He will know my two companions, I have no doubt.”
“And yourself, sir?” the nervous man asks. “How shall I announce…?”
Thomas smiles tightly – dangerously.
“Tell him,” he says slowly, deliberately, still smiling pleasantly, “that Mad Tom of Bedlam would quite like a word.”
Meg's Mumbles 