kill the imposter syndrome in you head because not only is there someone out there doing it worse than you, they're also using chat gpt to do it
Anyways.
π«π«π«π«π«π«π«
Remember: mistakes mean "a human did this" and that's the most beautiful thing of all.
It sounds like friendly waves and fancy suits and ships that sail through the night like they're not afraid of anything, not even the dark.
And for some reason he can't quite name, that thought makes him smile.
ππ’π΄π€πͺπ―π’π΅πͺπ―π¨.
~Fin~
"Revenge," he murmurs to himself, tasting the word. It doesn't sound like revenge β not the kind he knows, all blood and fire and screaming. It sounds like something else entirely.
Ed doesn't know why he didn't give the order. Doesn't know why the sight of that ridiculous, over-lit vessel with its nonsense flags and its enthusiastically waving captain made something in his chest twist sideways. Doesn't know why he's still watching it even as the darkness swallows it up again.
The figure has disappeared from the rail, probably gone below deck, and the ship continues on its way like a small, determined star floating on the black water.
The figure has stopped waving now, arms lowered in what might be disappointment or embarrassment. Ed watches as the bright ship begins to slip past them, and he turns to follow its progress. He can see the name painted on the stern now lit by lanterns hung above the gallery: ππ¦π·π¦π―π¨π¦.
When was the last time anyone waved at Blackbeard like they were greeting a friend?
The ships are parallel now, close enough that Ed could call out if he wanted to. Close enough to come alongside and board the strange ship.
The figure is still waving as they draw alongside, and Ed finds himself staring. There's something about the enthusiasm of it, the sheer determined friendliness radiating from that distant silhouette, that makes his chest feel strange. When was the last time someone was happy to see him coming?
They're not even proper flags, really β they look like someone's taken random bits of fabric and justβ¦hung them up there. One might be a floral pattern. Another looks like it could be a whale? Some kind of animal anyway. Maybe.
But who the fuck flies π§π°πΆπ³ flags? That's overkill.
His eyes track upward to the masts, where four flags flutter in the night breeze. He knows every pirate flag in these waters, every naval insignia, every merchant company banner. He doesn't recognize a single one of these.
He should give the order. Wake the crew. Izzy would want him to β it's what Blackbeard does, after all.
Ed pushes the thought away.
Easy pickings. A ship that well-lit with a crew apparently so incompetent they don't know better than to burn through their lamp oil for no reason. They'd probably surrender without a fight. Might even thank him for the excitement.
The figure is a silhouette at this distance, too far away to make out any features, but he can see they're wearing a lot of blue-green. It looks like the water around Hispaniola, that unique shade where the shallows meet the deep. Someone in fancy clothes that color, waving wildly in the darkness.
Not a casual wave. Not a signal. The person is waving like their life depends on it, great sweeping arcs of their arms that would be comical if they weren't so earnest.
The ship itself is beautiful: freshly painted, well-maintained, with lines that suggest speed even if it's currently just bobbing along like a duck in a bathtub. And there, at the bow, backlit by a dozen lanterns, is a figure.
A figure that's waving.
Or they're idiots. Idiots with money β look at all that lamp oil they're burning. That's not cheap.
Ed πͺπ΄ looking. He's looking very intently indeed, because as they draw closer, he can make out more details.
Every visible surface seems to be illuminated, creating a golden bubble of radiance that makes Ed's eyes water after hours of darkness.
Could be a trap, though he's not sure what kind of trap involves making yourself visible from approximately three miles away.
The ship ahead of them blazes with light. Not the dim glow of a few necessary lanterns, but ππͺπ¨π©π΅ β proper, wanton, absolutely mental amounts of light. It looks like someone has taken the sun and convinced it to go sailing.
He's seen men go mad from scurvy, seen ships swallowed by fog and never seen again, seen the sea turn colors that don't exist in nature.
But he's never seen anything quite like this.
"What the fuck," he says to no one, alone at the helm in the quiet darkness.
Edward Teach has seen many strange things in his years at sea.
He's seen St. Elmo's fire dance along the rigging during storms. He's seen a whale breach so close to the Queen Anne's Revenge that he could have reached out and touched it (he hadn't, because he's not a fucking idiot).
"Probably for the best," he murmurs to himself, adjusting his cravat with fingers that definitely aren't trembling. "Didn't know the protocol anyway."
The ship disappears into the darkness, and Stede remains at the bow a while longer, watching the empty space where it had been.
Here he is, dressed in his finest teal suit, standing on a ship he's poured his fortune into, surrounded by a crew he's trying desperately to captain, and he can't even manage a simple greeting to a passing vessel.
some signal he was supposed to give first, or perhaps one doesn't greet other ships at night at all. Perhaps it's considered gauche, like wearing a waistcoat to a cravat party.
He watches the dark ship continue on its way, and for the briefest of moments, he feels terribly, achingly alone.
The other vessel glides past, silent as a shadow. No one waves back. No one calls out. No lanterns flash in acknowledgment.
Stede slowly lowers his arms, feeling heat creep up his neck despite the cool night air. Of course. There must be a protocol he's missed,
He must look absolutely ridiculous, he realizes, flailing about like a man trying to flag down a coach on a country road, but he's committed now. The ship is close enough that surely someone must see him, backlit as he is by approximately four hundred candles' worth of lamp oil.
Then, feeling that perhaps a single wave might be missed in the darkness, he waves again. And again. He puts his whole arm into it, sweeping gestures that make his shoulder ache, alternating hands when one grows tired.
It's heading almost directly toward them, though at an angle that will take it safely past their starboard side.
He should do something. Acknowledge them somehow. It would be terribly rude not to.
Stede lifts his hand and waves.
He'd feel absolutely dreadful if he woke everyone with an ill-timed "Ahoy!" or whatever it is one is supposed to shout.
The ship draws closer, and he can make out more details now: the dark silhouette of its masts, the way it cuts through the water with a confidence the ππ¦π·π¦π―π¨π¦ has yet to master.
