Chapter Text
Nervous, he had to admit, was an understatement.
Boys were never supposed to dream about their wedding—or else, that was what Stede had grown up always being told. Nigel had said as much, after he’d innocently let his thoughts slip one day in the middle of lunch; it was soft-boiled eggs, he’d remembered, because after they’d been smeared in his face, the yolk had slipped down his cheek and stained his favorite shirt.
He’d quickly learned never again to wax romantic about a tasteful arch of flowers; and yet, that could never truly quell the fantasies. He’d kept thinking about it, this time in silence, while the other kids were pulling pranks and throwing fists. What finery he might wear, what cut he might like for his ring. How it would feel, that first kiss—to hold the hand of his one true love, oh-so-gentle beneath a wreath of roses.
But only peasants marry for love. That was the next lesson, beat over his head by his father; and despite all his prayers for their money to be mysteriously drained away—a gambling addiction, perhaps, or a tax set too high, or an investment gone wrong—God had other plans. He was doomed, it seemed, to be fortunate.
And that morning, as he stood on the beach with some stranger at his side, he couldn’t help but resent those beautiful dreams. Because how much worse did it feel now, to believe so deeply in what could have been?
He couldn’t begrudge Mary. She seemed nice enough. Maybe, if he was lucky, nice enough to tolerate—and if a miracle struck, perhaps nice enough one day to love. And yet, even if they did learn to love one another years down the line? That meant nothing now, at the hour of his wedding.
It would not matter, when they had no favorite poem to share. When he would kiss her, kiss for the first, fateful time, and feel absolutely nothing.
And so as he stood there, heart threatening to beat straight out of his chest, he swallowed down those futile fantasies. Because this was real, now. This was happening, no matter how many prayers for a rescue he had whispered under his breath. And Mary, as apathetic as she also looked—barely making eye contact, grimacing at the faint seaside odors of fish and salt—was going to be his wife.
No candles. No cakes.
(And that, he could barely understand—what good was money for, anyway, if you couldn’t even enjoy it?)
“You’re slouching.”
He straightened his neck to the quiet hiss, courtesy of his father (and he was barely slouching, thank you very much—merely looking down at his feet, which wasn’t a crime, last he’d heard).
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God…”
He swallowed, digging his heel anxiously into the sand. His sentence had begun, and there was nothing he could do about it.
If only it could be less dull—but no. He’d sworn off those fantasies.
And anyway, he was sure that he deserved this, even if he couldn’t place why. It was his perfect punishment, after all.
“…to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is commended to be honorable among all men…”
Honorable—sure. Whatever. It was all about the honor, wasn’t it? He squinted into the sky, trying to engross himself in the antics of a gull diving up and down with the current of the wind; at least that was moderately interesting to watch. He followed the horizon line with his eye, suppressing a yawn. It was so cloudy out on the ocean today. Almost foggy, and getting foggier by the second.
Ah, the ambience…
“…and therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly, but reverently, discreetly, advisedly and solemnly…”
And what a great start to a marriage this was, to be so openly disobeying God.
(But maybe, maybe if he used that as a counter—maybe this was his last minute gambit—to argue that this marriage, being entered without reverence, was unholy—nay, a sin—)
“…Into this holy estate these two persons present now come to be joined…”
He blinked. How odd, the fog suddenly looked. Shimmering, dark, as if opening up to an armada on the water. A mirage, perhaps? He turned an inquisitive eye to Mary, who was staring pointedly at the ground. The gull took a lap, and then disappeared as if into a cloud of smoke.
It was probably just another figment of his mind. The third thing he’d had drilled into him as a child, after all, was that his imagination helped no one—and least of all himself.
“…If any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together—let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”
Oh—oh. This was his cue. What was it, again, that he’d just rehearsed? What were those words—lightly, solemnly…
He opened his mouth, and then closed it, and then opened it again. And his father, who’d been glaring daggers at him for the better half of the morning, raised a pointed brow.
He swallowed. Oh, to hell with his dreams, his beautiful dreams. Romance belonged to the peasants. He’d forever hold his peace.
And for some reason, when the priest next opened his mouth, his words came out as a resounding blast of cannonfire.
Was that a part of the ceremony?
By the looks of the priest—who’d thrown his Bible above his head as a shield in a split second—Stede thought not.
“What the devil—”
His father’s voice was immediately drowned out by another, echoing across the water like some sort of Poseidon.
Stede swallowed. Oh, hell. God was probably here to smite him, and it was all his fault—
“People of Bridgetown!”
He winced. The booming voice of God was here for all of them, then. And it was his fault, it was all his stupid fault—
“Wait, is this—this is Bridgetown, yeah?”
He opened an eye—since when had he closed his eyes?—and noted that everyone looked just as dazed with panic as he was. His mother, as it seemed, had already fainted.
He couldn’t help but think it a little odd that God needed reassurance on where he was. But then again, he did probably have a lot on his plate.
“Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Point is, surrender—or die!”
“Oh, bloody pirate scum…and today, of all days—"
Pirate? Stede turned to his father, who was already brandishing a rock in his fist. Was God a—
Oh. It never was a mirage, was it? Blinking through the fog, it was becoming clearer to see; a true armada of ships, flags and sails and guns. And standing at the helm, a man—no, maybe it was a god—because men did not have hair of smoke, or eyes that glowed.
And for some reason, he was suddenly overtaken by the strangest feeling: he wasn’t sure if he even minded this malevolent god standing before them. This god had something compelling in his aura, unlike the one watching over their little ceremony today. This god had, for better or for worse, just answered his prayer.
Horrifying, and yet enigmatically beautiful—he could not bring himself to look away.
He’d never been so ready to worship a false idol.
And he was compelling enough, apparently, for Stede only to hear his father’s curses on a delay; compelling enough to take a second too long to see the rock catapulting from his father’s fingers, and clatter pitifully against the hull of the ship.
Compelling enough not to notice the man at this god’s side raise his gun, and fire a calculated shot only a few feet off from where Stede currently stood.
He flinched, at least a second late; Mary screamed, to which he screamed in turn; and his father, eyes as angry as ever, suddenly lay motionless on the ground at his feet.
“Fuck, you weren’t actually supposed to—fucking hell, Iz…whatever. Okay, anyway, uh…yeah. Bridgetown, or wherever the fuck—this is an ambush!”
So his dad was dead, and in barely a blink. His head reeled.
Did that mean the wedding was off?
Be careful what you wish for. Those were the words that played through his mind on loop, as he looked into the lifeless eyes before him—somehow still glaring with an air of disapproval, even in death.
He bit his cheek, just to test the reality of it all, and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the result.
“What the fuck…”
Mary, white as a sheet, had glued her eyes to the carnage. And as he wracked his brain for anything comforting to say—anything better than not having pegged her as the cursing type—he saw that God was descending upon them.
“Hey!” His voice rung different now that he was on the ground, surprisingly human. And he looked more human now, too, if still a bit mythical; the longest hair he’d ever seen, raven black, with a beard to match. No more smoke, no more glowing eyes—but there was still something that gleamed in them, as inscrutable as they were. “Now you know what’ll happen if you don’t come quiet, eh? So do I have your cooperation?”
With a head nearly blank between the vague emotions of shock and blasphemy, Stede turned to Mary. She only widened her eyes to her own parents in distress before the demigod spoke again.
“Oh…did I, uh, interrupt something? What’s going on here?”
Suddenly becoming aware that all eyes were on him, presumably under the expectation that he would take the role of their mouthpiece, Stede coughed, nearly choking on his own phlegm. “Not…really—”
“Why are you here? What do you want from us?”
Mary had straightened her back with her fists to her hips, a surprising amount of gall for so small a person. Secretly, Stede felt a wash of relief. He wasn’t confident that he could maneuver this conversation without some sort of fumble.
“Kind of you to ask.” The pirate-god smiled, and jerked his head to a few of his crew. In silent understanding, the others closed in—what they didn’t have in numbers, they made up for in guns, looming stares, and sheer force of muscle. “Are any of you a doctor, by chance?”
Oh—something he actually knew the answer to. A doctor, was all? He shook his head, and saw that Mary did the same.
“Hm. That’s a shame…”
“Oh, well, we can find you a doctor, that’s no problem at all, if that’s all you’re here for—”
He was stammering along, just as Mary—so bold, maybe even foolhardy (and so much he was learning about her in just a few minute’s time)—spit on the demigod’s shoe.
“Leave us alone, pirate. We’re not helping you.”
And then it all happened in a matter of seconds—the man who’d just killed his dad, yanking back her arms; Mary, in turn, stomping on his boot; her father stepping in, only to be elbowed to the ground; and Stede himself, acting purely on instinct, throwing himself rashly in the middle of it all.
Not his wisest decision, he noted, as the pirate—not as tall as he’d previously thought amidst the cloud of smoke, but tall enough that he nearly tripped over his own feet from the intimidation—pulled a swift cutlass to his chest.
He dared not look down, but he could feel the faintest trickle of blood.
“Don’t hurt her, I’ll…uh…” His throat was drier than his head was dizzy, and he regretted the words from the second they fumbled out of his mouth. “I’ll fight you—I’m not…not afraid…”
Perhaps the biggest lie he’d ever told—and he had told his fair share of lies—but of course, a god could see right through it. He grinned as he leaned his lips to Stede’s ear, errant strands of hair now brushing at his cheek, and a strange something pulsed through Stede’s chest and down to the pit of his stomach. God dropped his voice to a whisper.
“You’re lucky you’ve got a pretty face.”
And he pulled the tip of his sword away as he straightened back up, pushing his hair back behind his shoulders, and narrowed his eyes in an ominous sort of smile; and Stede, swallowing hard, had never felt closer to fainting or theology in turn.
And as he started to step away, Stede whispered frantically under his breath, half question and half prayer. “Are you a man, or a god?”
“Huh.” The pirate arched a brow, something almost amused in his demeanor, before briefly leaning back in. “To you, I’m both.” And he stepped back, calling out to his crew, and the benediction was done. “This one’s not a threat! But he looks rich…could make a good example. Maybe we can get something out of him?”
“Uh,” Stede blinked, suddenly snapping from the trance as he processed the words. “Example in what way, exactly—”
“She might be a threat, though…but I don’t want to kill her unless we have to. Eh, you know what? Take them both. Might as well not split the lovebirds up.”
“Oh, no, that’s really not necessary, why don’t you just take me instead—”
But the pirate had already begun to walk away, and Stede felt a strong set of hands yank at his wrists from behind. He turned frantically to Mary, who was losing her fight against the two large men gripping her by the arms.
“What are we supposed to do?”
“You think I know?”
“Hey, uh…” He turned his head to his captor, who towered over him. He swallowed, feeling rather small. “Any chance you can let her go? Really, I think you only need one of us—”
“You ever heard of taking just one hostage, mate?”
“Well, I admit I don’t have a lot of experience in the matter, but—”
“Nah, we’re taking you both.”
He shared a weak grimace with Mary, who seemed barely aware of Stede’s poor attempt at gallantry, and turned back to the pirate at his wrists.
“Can I at least clarify, um, what’s going to…to happen to us?”
The man raised a brow, and pushed him roughly towards the ship. “I dunno. Captain’s call.”
“Are…well, are we going to be, um…are we just going to be kept hostage for a while, or—”
“I dunno.”
“Oh. Ah. Okay then.”
So his fate would be decided later, then.
For what it was worth, he felt a surprising lack of nerves, as compared to how he’d been feeling for the better half of the morning; although, to be fair, he was probably coasting on the pure shock and adrenaline of it all. No matter how he hated the man—no matter the guilt he was already feeling for the sense of relief—he’d still just watched his dad die.
(But, he had to admit, the whole ceremony sure had become a lot more interesting.)
“Hey. Oi!” The man-god was calling out again, and Stede’s head went faint as he noticed the finger being pointed squarely in his direction. “What’s your name, then? Gotta tell people who we’ve got hostage—adds to the effect, ya know?”
He swallowed, for the briefest of moments second-guessing his own name. The question of whether or not it was wise to divulge it, of course, only occurred to him after the words were spoken. “Uh. It’s Stede. Stede Bonnet.”
“Stede.” The man made his way up and—to Stede’s reeling surprise—put a firm hand to his shoulder. “This here is the Queen Anne’s Revenge,” he pointed upwards, an impish sort of grin dancing at his lips, “and you can call me Blackbeard.”