On Barren Sands
Apr. 7th, 2023 12:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gwyllionTitle: On Barren Sands
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet
Rating: G
Words: 1819
Warnings: Omniscient narrator
Summary: A red scrap of cloth skitters across a sandy beach.
A/N: Thanks to my wonderful beta, Gillian. She is an admirer of On Gorgoroth Plain, and she brought the fic to my attention. I used it as inspiration for this fic.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading!
On barren sands, the tide sweeps ashore. The unrelenting sun illuminates the scene and burns sand into dust. Hours pass. Salty grains absorb the sea. Incoming waves erase the scars of winter storms that rise in parallel lines upon the wet sand. Soon the shore stretches level and vacant when the waves retreat like a fleeing lover. The beach bakes in the summer heat, reborn. The stretch of white sand bears no mark or guidepost that a weary traveller can use to find their way. Low tide reveals the empty beach, like a blank sheet of parchment, upon which a thousand stories may be written, but none of any importance in the grand scheme of humanity.
The wind whips a spray of granules across the smooth surface of the scoured beach. A chunk of driftwood, sun-bleached and battered, emerges from its grave. Days pass before a few jagged spikes poke from the sand. They adorn the driftwood’s flank like the antlers of some cryptid creature.
On this empty shore, a scrap of faded red silk skitters in the wind. Tossed and twisted by the salted breeze, a loose thread catches the spiny spike of driftwood battered into splinters by the sea. The wind tugs the rag toward the shoreline. The faded fabric hovers above white sand that shifts beneath nature’s forces.
A single thread unravels, floats on the sea-breeze, but the scrap remains tethered until each of the fragile threads break one by one like tentacle suckers detaching from a rock. The scrap has suffered worse abuse in its time, cast away by the very hand that sheltered it for more years than it would take for tides to wear away a seaside bluff. The rag’s rich red has faded with wisdom.
A wanderer’s foot leaves its imprint in the hot sand. His blistered toes have spent too much time under the sun, like a starfish that has grown rough and parched after drifting too high upon the shore. He takes the first deliberate step across the expanse that stretches from the shoreline to the outcrop of smooth rocks that spill toward the sea.
The scrap of worn fabric does not yet catch his eye.
“Perhaps we can find some shade over by those rocks,” Stede suggests. He points to a distant darkness rising from the blank white sands. The action is momentary. He quickly shields his eyes from the sun as if he longs for his parasol that would keep the sun from reddening his fair skin, less pale now than it had been before he took to the sea in a borrowed dinghy.
Ed says nothing. He searches the horizon for where the Revenge remains far offshore, just beyond his gaze. His hand goes to his chest, but he remembers that the token he once possessed no longer fills the space there. Its absence leaves him hollow.
Fifty yards away, the red scrap of cloth yearns for the safety it once knew inside the leather jacket where it dwelled in warmth for years. Now only the damp sea-stones embrace it like an insignificant piece of jetsam.
Stede clasps his hands together. The days of rowing as he collected his abandoned crew has roughened his palms and blistered his skin. He presses one hand to his heart, undoubtedly remembering the thrill of climbing aboard the Revenge again. His journey over, he was on the cusp of his reunion with his love. But a week of swordpoints and surrenders, apologies and accusations, tears and tirades, have done little to guide him back to that place in his memory before he and Ed parted ways. His throat holds a dry lump that he cannot choke down. Tears prick the corners of his eyes without warning. And now, he must contend with this abandonment. He shoulders the weight of his trauma like a trunk full of sand.
If Stede plucked the red silk from its resting place now, not for the first time would the scrap absorb the tears of a sorrowful bearer. Ed’s mother pressed the cloth against her cheek as she dreamed of a better life than the one that an unfair God had allotted to her kind. Her salted tears spread dark across the fabric that she tucked close to her bosom.
The crew had jointly resolved to abandon their co-captains on this stretch of desolate beach until the two learned to close the distance between them, so all the crew could get a peaceful night’s sleep. Of course, Lucius would have preferred to abandon Ed on the island never to return, but the reunited crew of the Revenge agreed that they should wait a mile or more off the shore until enough time had passed and the two captains hadn’t yet killed each other. Maybe then, the two could be trusted to stand upon the deck of the same ship.
Even Izzy had approved the idea to let the pair rewrite their story on the barren beach. Of course, he had likely hoped the story would end with Stede buried in a shallow grave, his body a meal for the crabs and gulls.
Edward sits slumped on the sand. His toes clench the granules as if trying to grasp something unattainable, a sign that he should give up his chosen role as the Kraken. His head hangs low. The black kohl that once smudged his eyes and chin has mixed with sweat and drips down his neck like tar. He scratches at his chest hair where it coagulates. A sign might guide him forward on his reunion path, but the red scrap of fabric remains out of sight. Only the crosshairs of Oluwande’s scope etch an unseen target on his forehead.
“I’m going to kill every last one of them when I get back to the ship,” Ed mutters.
“Edward! That’s entirely unnecessary,” Stede scoffs, stepping into the space beside him. Stockings in tatters, his bare heels sink into the soft sand. “None of this is their fault. You know, if I could have returned to you sooner, I would have.”
Ed snorts. “It’s not like it makes any difference now, does it?”
“As I’ve tried to tell you,” Stede sputters, “events that were beyond my control happened. It’s not as if I gleefully went back to my wife. And I’ve told you a hundred times now, the whole death thing was a fuckery.”
“That’s right, mate. Not only did you leave me on the dock, but then you let me believe you were dead,” Ed grunts. “What kind of man does that to someone he cares about?”
“It was a fuckery, dammit! And I had no way of knowing you would learn about it before I caught up with you. Of course, I would have returned more expeditiously had I not needed to cram a half dozen of my crew into a tiny dinghy,” Stede says heatedly.
Ed only has eyes for the sand between his feet.
No stranger to Ed’s grief, the red scrap of cloth flutters in the breeze. The stolen fabric has witnessed the many cruelties that accompanied its travels with the dread pirate Blackbeard. Abandoning most of Stede’s crew was hardly the worst of his crimes.
“In fact, you would have been quite impressed to see me put my piratical education about fuckeries into action. Half of Bridgetown gathered around to witness my tragic demise,” Stede admits with pride.
Ed shakes his head. He traces patterns in the sand, the troughs as deep as his thoughts. A lifetime of seizing opportunities without any sign or help from god herself, Ed was never a stranger to making his own magic. He rubs his gloved hands together and hustles to his feet.
“What are you doing?” Stede asks. He gestures longingly toward the outcrop of rocks. “Are we going to find some shade?”
“You know they won’t let us get back on the ship until they’re sure we’ve settled our disagreement,” Ed says. He lets his leather jacket drop to the sand. With one hand, he pulls his purple undershirt, the one that Stede loves, over his head.
“Edward? What is the meaning of this?” Stede shouts, his hands flailing in the air. The cuffs of the assigned shirt from the Privateering Academy have lost most of their buttons. The sleeves hang loose off his frame.
“Let’s do it,” Ed says. He presses forward, his tattooed chest bumping against Stede. “I’m not above debasing myself if it means we’ll get back to the ship.”
Stede takes a step backwards. “Debasing? I hardly think that’s appropriate,” he stammers.
“Come on, this is a brilliant idea,” Ed demands. “If they let us back aboard, we’ll have food and a dry place to sleep. I promise I won’t even try to kill any of the crew… again.”
“You’d better not dare,” Stede says, raising his hand to push back at Ed. His palm skims Ed’s bare chest, the place just over his heart where he once tucked a red silk handkerchief into his pocket and admired that Ed wore fine things well.
“You wanted to make up,” Ed says, arms stretched wide. “Now, have at me.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Stede says with a grin. He turns to run in the direction of the rocky outcrop that promises shade. His heart leaps at the glimmer of hope that Ed might excuse his horrible actions after Chauncey had led him into the jungle at gunpoint. His fists pump as he runs to evade Ed’s attempt to grasp the billowing shirttails that have escaped his drab trousers. His bare feet struggle clumsily in the hot sand. He is no match for Ed, even with his bad knee.
Ed tackles Stede to the windswept beach. Hot sand kicks up and gets in their hair, their clothes, their mouths. The pair tumble like dolphins in a frothy wake.
The rocks rise at the edge of the beach, only a ship’s length away now. An ocean breeze does its job, making the red silk flutter.
“What?” Ed gulps. All at once, he leaves his co-captain in a dishevelled heap.
Stede is left wondering why his pursuer has faltered. He scratches at his windblown hair and pushes it out of his eyes.
Ed returns and falls to the sand at Stede’s side, having snatched the red silk from its resting place.
“Is that what I think it is?” Stede asks, the salt on his tongue making his eyes crinkle.
Ed clutches the scrap of fabric, held tight in his gloved hand. It’s the only sign that he needs. He surrenders himself to Stede’s care, to his hands, to his salty lips.
Stede raises an eyebrow as their mouths meet. He exhales a sigh of relief and reaches for the cherished scrap of fabric.
Two pairs of tender hands smooth the silk again. It feels like a homecoming. On barren sands, a new story begins.
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet
Rating: G
Words: 1819
Warnings: Omniscient narrator
Summary: A red scrap of cloth skitters across a sandy beach.
A/N: Thanks to my wonderful beta, Gillian. She is an admirer of On Gorgoroth Plain, and she brought the fic to my attention. I used it as inspiration for this fic.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading!
On barren sands, the tide sweeps ashore. The unrelenting sun illuminates the scene and burns sand into dust. Hours pass. Salty grains absorb the sea. Incoming waves erase the scars of winter storms that rise in parallel lines upon the wet sand. Soon the shore stretches level and vacant when the waves retreat like a fleeing lover. The beach bakes in the summer heat, reborn. The stretch of white sand bears no mark or guidepost that a weary traveller can use to find their way. Low tide reveals the empty beach, like a blank sheet of parchment, upon which a thousand stories may be written, but none of any importance in the grand scheme of humanity.
The wind whips a spray of granules across the smooth surface of the scoured beach. A chunk of driftwood, sun-bleached and battered, emerges from its grave. Days pass before a few jagged spikes poke from the sand. They adorn the driftwood’s flank like the antlers of some cryptid creature.
On this empty shore, a scrap of faded red silk skitters in the wind. Tossed and twisted by the salted breeze, a loose thread catches the spiny spike of driftwood battered into splinters by the sea. The wind tugs the rag toward the shoreline. The faded fabric hovers above white sand that shifts beneath nature’s forces.
A single thread unravels, floats on the sea-breeze, but the scrap remains tethered until each of the fragile threads break one by one like tentacle suckers detaching from a rock. The scrap has suffered worse abuse in its time, cast away by the very hand that sheltered it for more years than it would take for tides to wear away a seaside bluff. The rag’s rich red has faded with wisdom.
A wanderer’s foot leaves its imprint in the hot sand. His blistered toes have spent too much time under the sun, like a starfish that has grown rough and parched after drifting too high upon the shore. He takes the first deliberate step across the expanse that stretches from the shoreline to the outcrop of smooth rocks that spill toward the sea.
The scrap of worn fabric does not yet catch his eye.
“Perhaps we can find some shade over by those rocks,” Stede suggests. He points to a distant darkness rising from the blank white sands. The action is momentary. He quickly shields his eyes from the sun as if he longs for his parasol that would keep the sun from reddening his fair skin, less pale now than it had been before he took to the sea in a borrowed dinghy.
Ed says nothing. He searches the horizon for where the Revenge remains far offshore, just beyond his gaze. His hand goes to his chest, but he remembers that the token he once possessed no longer fills the space there. Its absence leaves him hollow.
Fifty yards away, the red scrap of cloth yearns for the safety it once knew inside the leather jacket where it dwelled in warmth for years. Now only the damp sea-stones embrace it like an insignificant piece of jetsam.
Stede clasps his hands together. The days of rowing as he collected his abandoned crew has roughened his palms and blistered his skin. He presses one hand to his heart, undoubtedly remembering the thrill of climbing aboard the Revenge again. His journey over, he was on the cusp of his reunion with his love. But a week of swordpoints and surrenders, apologies and accusations, tears and tirades, have done little to guide him back to that place in his memory before he and Ed parted ways. His throat holds a dry lump that he cannot choke down. Tears prick the corners of his eyes without warning. And now, he must contend with this abandonment. He shoulders the weight of his trauma like a trunk full of sand.
If Stede plucked the red silk from its resting place now, not for the first time would the scrap absorb the tears of a sorrowful bearer. Ed’s mother pressed the cloth against her cheek as she dreamed of a better life than the one that an unfair God had allotted to her kind. Her salted tears spread dark across the fabric that she tucked close to her bosom.
The crew had jointly resolved to abandon their co-captains on this stretch of desolate beach until the two learned to close the distance between them, so all the crew could get a peaceful night’s sleep. Of course, Lucius would have preferred to abandon Ed on the island never to return, but the reunited crew of the Revenge agreed that they should wait a mile or more off the shore until enough time had passed and the two captains hadn’t yet killed each other. Maybe then, the two could be trusted to stand upon the deck of the same ship.
Even Izzy had approved the idea to let the pair rewrite their story on the barren beach. Of course, he had likely hoped the story would end with Stede buried in a shallow grave, his body a meal for the crabs and gulls.
Edward sits slumped on the sand. His toes clench the granules as if trying to grasp something unattainable, a sign that he should give up his chosen role as the Kraken. His head hangs low. The black kohl that once smudged his eyes and chin has mixed with sweat and drips down his neck like tar. He scratches at his chest hair where it coagulates. A sign might guide him forward on his reunion path, but the red scrap of fabric remains out of sight. Only the crosshairs of Oluwande’s scope etch an unseen target on his forehead.
“I’m going to kill every last one of them when I get back to the ship,” Ed mutters.
“Edward! That’s entirely unnecessary,” Stede scoffs, stepping into the space beside him. Stockings in tatters, his bare heels sink into the soft sand. “None of this is their fault. You know, if I could have returned to you sooner, I would have.”
Ed snorts. “It’s not like it makes any difference now, does it?”
“As I’ve tried to tell you,” Stede sputters, “events that were beyond my control happened. It’s not as if I gleefully went back to my wife. And I’ve told you a hundred times now, the whole death thing was a fuckery.”
“That’s right, mate. Not only did you leave me on the dock, but then you let me believe you were dead,” Ed grunts. “What kind of man does that to someone he cares about?”
“It was a fuckery, dammit! And I had no way of knowing you would learn about it before I caught up with you. Of course, I would have returned more expeditiously had I not needed to cram a half dozen of my crew into a tiny dinghy,” Stede says heatedly.
Ed only has eyes for the sand between his feet.
No stranger to Ed’s grief, the red scrap of cloth flutters in the breeze. The stolen fabric has witnessed the many cruelties that accompanied its travels with the dread pirate Blackbeard. Abandoning most of Stede’s crew was hardly the worst of his crimes.
“In fact, you would have been quite impressed to see me put my piratical education about fuckeries into action. Half of Bridgetown gathered around to witness my tragic demise,” Stede admits with pride.
Ed shakes his head. He traces patterns in the sand, the troughs as deep as his thoughts. A lifetime of seizing opportunities without any sign or help from god herself, Ed was never a stranger to making his own magic. He rubs his gloved hands together and hustles to his feet.
“What are you doing?” Stede asks. He gestures longingly toward the outcrop of rocks. “Are we going to find some shade?”
“You know they won’t let us get back on the ship until they’re sure we’ve settled our disagreement,” Ed says. He lets his leather jacket drop to the sand. With one hand, he pulls his purple undershirt, the one that Stede loves, over his head.
“Edward? What is the meaning of this?” Stede shouts, his hands flailing in the air. The cuffs of the assigned shirt from the Privateering Academy have lost most of their buttons. The sleeves hang loose off his frame.
“Let’s do it,” Ed says. He presses forward, his tattooed chest bumping against Stede. “I’m not above debasing myself if it means we’ll get back to the ship.”
Stede takes a step backwards. “Debasing? I hardly think that’s appropriate,” he stammers.
“Come on, this is a brilliant idea,” Ed demands. “If they let us back aboard, we’ll have food and a dry place to sleep. I promise I won’t even try to kill any of the crew… again.”
“You’d better not dare,” Stede says, raising his hand to push back at Ed. His palm skims Ed’s bare chest, the place just over his heart where he once tucked a red silk handkerchief into his pocket and admired that Ed wore fine things well.
“You wanted to make up,” Ed says, arms stretched wide. “Now, have at me.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Stede says with a grin. He turns to run in the direction of the rocky outcrop that promises shade. His heart leaps at the glimmer of hope that Ed might excuse his horrible actions after Chauncey had led him into the jungle at gunpoint. His fists pump as he runs to evade Ed’s attempt to grasp the billowing shirttails that have escaped his drab trousers. His bare feet struggle clumsily in the hot sand. He is no match for Ed, even with his bad knee.
Ed tackles Stede to the windswept beach. Hot sand kicks up and gets in their hair, their clothes, their mouths. The pair tumble like dolphins in a frothy wake.
The rocks rise at the edge of the beach, only a ship’s length away now. An ocean breeze does its job, making the red silk flutter.
“What?” Ed gulps. All at once, he leaves his co-captain in a dishevelled heap.
Stede is left wondering why his pursuer has faltered. He scratches at his windblown hair and pushes it out of his eyes.
Ed returns and falls to the sand at Stede’s side, having snatched the red silk from its resting place.
“Is that what I think it is?” Stede asks, the salt on his tongue making his eyes crinkle.
Ed clutches the scrap of fabric, held tight in his gloved hand. It’s the only sign that he needs. He surrenders himself to Stede’s care, to his hands, to his salty lips.
Stede raises an eyebrow as their mouths meet. He exhales a sigh of relief and reaches for the cherished scrap of fabric.
Two pairs of tender hands smooth the silk again. It feels like a homecoming. On barren sands, a new story begins.
