Chapter Text
If Silver had learned anything in the past few months, it’s that any leader was only as strong as the pedestal he stood on. It’s easy to think that power was built on submission, like a fort upon the land. But really, power was built of submission – if authority be a tower, servitude be the bricks. However, Silver knew of another kind of power: where he was neither the master nor servant, but the engineer. As quartermaster, he manipulated the captain and maneuvered the crew to construct his schemes. The power may be Flint’s, but it was Silver’s design.
A new role emerged when Billy suggested that Silver should be the one to threaten the traitors of Nassau. Flint’s eyes darted between the two of them, trying to uncover a conspiracy. Silver wished that he had conspired with Billy, so that he could take some credit for the idea. He should have known that this was the only way he’d be granted dominion. It was foolish of him to have ever told Flint that his name belonged to the men who had sacrificed a part of themselves to build it. He now realised that it was blasphemous to suggest that Flint’s power was anything other than divinely manifested through sheer force of will. To keep his trust, Silver must be perceived as upholding his supreme authority. He would become the mouthpiece of Flint’s word. There was power in this too: the way that religions worshipped prophets. Silver looked to Flint, he didn't need permission but sought his approval; his skeptical face was not promising.
A knock on the door. “Land on the horizon, shall we make our approach?” DeGroot asked Flint.
But the captain didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to Silver with raised eyebrows in a mockery of deference.
This was a test that Silver didn’t care to pass. “Do it,” he commanded. “And make ready the launches, I’ll lead the shore party as soon as we arrive.” He could not deny the thrill which rushed through him with each word. Yet he also couldn't deny that this had inflamed Flint’s suspicion – he would need to be tempered.
Vane and Billy both looked taken aback by his new-found authority but did not challenge it as they left to organise their men. Madi had no pressing business to tend to but she seemed to sense that Silver did and departed from the cabin all the same. It would be at least an hour until they stepped foot on land; before then, Silver needed to know where he stood on the ship.
Flint scrutinised the map on the table, as though his doubts about the plan lay in the geography.
“There is some merit in the idea,” Silver appealed, “I will be enforcing your authority, not undermining it.”
The captain turned away to face the cabin windows.
“The men will be fighting in your name, I am merely the messenger,” he stepped beside him, resting his weight against the table.
Flint stared pensively out to the horizon. “King Mark of Cornwall sent his nephew, Tristan, to ask for Princess Isolde’s hand in marriage on his behalf,” he narrated to the sea. “She agrees to marry this king whom she knows by name alone, when it is the handsome young Tristan delivering the message. However, during the journey – one way or another – Tristan and Isolde fall madly in love. She may pledge loyalty to King Mark, but it is Tristan who owns her heart, whom she meets under the cover of darkness.” He looked at Silver accusingly.
Silver knew all too well how Flint weaponised stories, and this one was pointing right at him. “What does King Mark do?”
“It depends on the story. In some versions, he kills Tristan with a poisoned lance,” his steely gaze threatened as much. “But in others, he forgives them both, so long as Tristan leaves the country.”
“And which one do you prefer?” Silver asked nervously. When Flint remained silent, he dared to mutter, “I like a happy ending, myself.”
“A king’s pardon is not a happy ending,” he said sardonically. “The lovers are separated. Make no mistake, it always ends in tragedy.”
Silver reevaluated. “Are you framing yourself as the villain?”
“I don’t want to. I can’t let this be the narrative that plays out. So I need to know that the men’s allegiance is to me, not you.”
“We are one, Captain. I have done your bidding, given you the air from my lungs, forsaken a fortune of gold to stay by your side. What more must I do to prove my devotion to you?” he let his voice break in desperation. “I share your interests, your goals. I speak with your voice. My mouth is yours.”
At the last sentence, Flint’s gaze flickered down to his lips.
Interesting. It wasn’t the first time Flint had looked at him like that – with hunger, craving. Silver had noted his desire soon after they’d met, stowed it in his back pocket as a last resort. It was a tactic he was reluctant to use: sodomy was never conducive to respect. If Silver indulged his lust, Flint would view him as a manifestation of his shame. He still believed this to be true, however, he had since gained Flint’s respect. Now, if Silver were to be debased by his depravity, Flint would feel disgusted solely at himself. A pathway into Flint’s mind opened before him, inviting Silver to burrow inside like a worm in an apple. He wanted to consume that sweet fruit and then leave it to rot.
Silver returned a glance to Flint’s mouth, shifting closer. He was confident that this plan would work, if only Flint would rise to the bait. Silver hoped that he would identify his conflicting determination and trepidation, but misattribute its cause. Salacious tales had their own archetypes; Silver portrayed himself as the corruptible youth, a powder keg of desire waiting to ignite. He increased the rate of his breathing as he measured the scant distance between their bodies. Skittish eyes begged Flint to act. He had to be the one to seal their lips and fates. Flint knew as well as he did that they stood on a precipice, one move would push them both past a point of no return. He interrogated Silver’s face, assessing the risks. A subtle nod provided assurance. Flint yielded, sweeping stray curls from his face to angle his jaw. Cautiously, he pressed closed dry lips against Silver's own.
Silver had never been kissed by a man before, but he understood why some men did it. It took the edge off indecent acts, wrapped it up in something almost romantic. It was like how prostitutes kissed: not an expression of love but an imitation of it. However, no prostitute had ever kissed him like this. Flint was as persuasive as ever – passionate, powerful, impossible to refuse. When Silver offered no resistance, Flint launched his full assault. His tongue pushed between Silver’s lips as he inhaled his breath, devouring his warmth.
The scratching of a ginger moustache against his own served as a fitting barrier between their lips, lest Silver get too comfortable. Because it was easy to get lost in this. Beyond Flint’s effortlessly rugged body, his true strength had always been his mouth. That tongue could toy with the truth, while his lips imbued every word with undeniable fervour. No wonder Silver was so influenced.
Flint released his mouth but grasped Silver's face between his hands. He stared in awe, as though he had discovered something precious, a glint of gold in the darkness.
“I didn’t think– ” Flint laughed bashfully, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
“I had some idea, you’re not that subtle,” Silver teased.
Hands slipped away. Flint wavered between obstinate denial and humiliated acceptance. “How long?”
“Would you think me arrogant if I said ‘within a few days of meeting you’?”
“I already think you’re arrogant, I didn’t know you were so presumptuous too,” he retorted. “That’s bullshit. I suppose I was attracted to you, sure. But I didn’t– ” he cut himself off.
Silver wondered how Flint being attracted to him was any different from wanting him.
Flint retreated, his barriers restored. A familiar spark of anger flickered across his face. Perhaps it was partly indignation at Silver's ploy but beneath that, Flint must be furious at himself for being so susceptible to it. He took a step back to consider Silver from a wider perspective. Defenses amounted to an attack. “You know how much depends on our alliance, I will not have you jeopardise it on a whim.”
“I rather thought I was strengthening it,” Silver replied.
“Strengthening our partnership, perhaps, but what about everything that rests on it?”
“If our bond is the foundation, then surely our plans are made more stable the closer that we are,” Silver edged slightly towards him.
“That’s not always true. Our judgement cannot become clouded. I can't let myself…” Flint looked away, his eyes awash with a retrospective hue. It was increasingly common for him to fall into this state following the loss of Mrs Barlow, although his grief seemed to precede her death. He snapped back, as though reminded of their present situation. “When we reach Nassau, how will you persuade the men to resist the governor?”
Silver laughed lightly, “I don’t intend to persuade them. We both know that this is not some intellectual debate over how the new world should be governed. This is a battle against tyranny and fire must be fought with fire.”
“Of course, but intimidation is my domain,” Flint said. “Your strength has always been to inspire men by appealing to their emotions.”
“Fear is the most compelling emotion of all.”
“And you’re able to incite it?”
“Trust me.”
“I do,” Flint muttered as a confession.
Silver nodded and headed for the door without another word.
Beyond the cabin walls, the ramifications of what he'd just done reverberated through the open air. Silver took refuge beneath the quarterdeck stairs to steel himself. Seducing Flint had seemed like the obvious course of action in that moment (and surely it was) but he was acutely aware of why he hadn't done it earlier. Those who had dared come so close to Flint before had been pulled into his void. Yet what other choice did he have? Silver’s position on the crew was his only lifeline – nowhere else could he find any level of respect, much less as an invalid. And his role as quartermaster utterly depended upon securing the captain’s favour. This was the most reliable means to that end. Forging his own path into Flint’s depths was the only way to ensure that he could find his way back out.
If falling was inevitable, he would rather jump. Deciding to submit was still a decision, and Silver would never let anyone take that choice from him. He knew how vulnerability could be wielded as a weapon, how a prisoner could strangle their captor with manacles. Besides, the aftermath of Mrs Barlow’s death had proved that if Flint truly respected someone, he would blame himself for their demise. If Silver had successfully become his partner in the same way that she had, his descent would be Flint’s downfall.
This is how he had survived in another life. As a boy – before he became Silver – he had offered himself like a piece of meat, a lure to distract from the younger boys. Let the villains think they’d won. It was similar to how he had protected the crew from Vane’s Lieutenant in Charlestown (as if Silver needed another example of why he shouldn’t become invested in others). His recollection of those events were shrouded in shadow – he couldn’t say how many times the axe hit his shin, or how many evenings he spent in the Reverend’s office. His amputated leg had been thrown out to sea near Carolina and Silver had cast away his past long before. But severing the wounds did not remove the pain. He was tormented by phantoms of injuries which could not heal. Ghosts lurked just out of sight, threatening to show their true form if he ever dared to look. The crew would never understand, there was no blood he could point at to justify his hurt. So, Silver propped himself up on a peg leg and ignored the constant ache. He almost looked normal, from a distance.
He stepped back into the sunlight and into his role as quartermaster, directing his focus towards Nassau. Try as he might to banish all thoughts of Flint from his mind, his final remarks lingered. Being the object of men’s lust was nothing new to Silver, but one indignity that he had not foreseen was Flint's doubt in him as an object of fear. Urged on by spite, Silver commanded the landing party with undue intensity. He was determined to put on a memorable performance.
Usually, Silver spoke to crowds to ingratiate himself into them. People instinctively treated him with suspicion if not outright disdain. The challenge had always been to prove to others that he was one of them, that he posed no threat. He'd successfully charmed the Walrus crew (if not all of Nassau) into believing that he was a happy-go-lucky man of the people. But never before had Silver needed to convince the world that he was indeed the despicable snake he was always presumed to be. It must feel like a relief: to give in to the shame he had been running from for so long. Every accusation, hateful look and insult hurled his way would finally amount to something.
────
Silence fell over the tavern as Silver entered, like a class of disobedient schoolboys awaiting the headmaster's cane. Eyes cowered in humiliation or else were too captivated to look away. Silver channeled the attention – no matter its origin – and twisted it into pure terror. But this wasn’t the true source of his power: he was emboldened by Flint’s name on his tongue. A vessel buoyed by the captain’s will. As a Puritan pastor harnessed the word of God, he preached salvation but offered no mercy. Silver had the flock under his command, until that pathetic shit of a traitor opened his mouth.
“Is that it?” Dufresne heckled. “If Captain Flint is truly alive, surely he can do better than to send half a man to deliver a threat as weak as this.” He slowly emerged from the shadows to face him. “A threat that amounts to what, ‘fear my name’? Contented men have short memories and they have little reason to fear the dark.”
As Dufresne’s rant continued, it was drowned out by a burning rage rushing over Silver. Hot blood scalded his senses, cauterised into a numbing cold.
Silver deserved to be listened to, he’d sacrificed enough to earn it. He would not forget the men who abandoned the cause, just as he’d never forgotten anyone who had wronged him. He knew exactly what monsters awaited him in the dark but he no longer feared them. Those who crossed him all met the same fate. He did what any pirate should when faced with injustice: he fought back. Silver was not a victim, nor a coward, nor–
“ –A goddamn invalid,” Dufresne sneered.
He was ‘the one-legged creature’ and he should be feared.
He knocked Dufresne to the ground in one fell swoop.
The rat squirmed where he lay but made no attempt to flee. Wounded prey resigned to its fate.
Silver hadn't intended to kill him. At least, he hadn't planned to. It was opportunistic: with Dufresne’s head so close to his feet, how could he resist one simple kick? But as his metal boot rose above that snivelling face, something changed.
The mouth that had mocked Silver now gaped in fear. Fear for that very same blight: the missing piece of him which had been replaced by something stronger, hard and heavy. Something dangerous.
His weakness became a weapon.
The first crunch of skull was like shattering a layer of ice beneath his feet; Silver plunged into freezing waters, sinking deeper and deeper until breathing ceased to matter. In that abyss, he was no longer human, unencumbered by mortal needs. His body dissolved into darkness.
Blood splattered across Silver’s face, gratuitous and gratifying. The source of his pain was now the cause of someone else’s. Dufresne deserved to suffer. All of these men deserved to suffer. Every injury Silver had endured, he shall inflict on more worthy victims.
Silver would haunt every traitor on this island. In a thousand forms: the unseen eyes always watching, the whispers in the wind, prickles crawling over skin. He would become the figure of their children’s nightmares – whenever anyone felt fear, it would be of him.
He'd never felt so powerful. Is this what it felt like to be a god? Is this what it felt like to be Flint?
“Tomorrow you will join us, or you will all be looking over your shoulders for the rest of your lives,” he threatened the captive audience. “My name is John Silver and I’ve got a long fucking memory.”
──── ⚓︎ ────
Walking back through Nassau, Silver felt invincible. It scarcely occurred to him that his leg should be in pain, let alone that he should feel it. Unbound from the confines of his body, his spirit was an intangible force pervading through the streets, infiltrating every mind.
Once onboard the ship, he was delivered to the sickbay to tend to his mortal form. It was only upon seeing the inflamed blotchy flesh that Silver returned to himself. The pain came back tenfold, pulsing through his whole body as though his heart was at the end of his stump. He was used to pain. However, the euphoria was unlike anything he had ever experienced. Silver suddenly sympathised with the opium smokers at the wrecks; the crash down was a small price to pay for that intoxicating high.
“Are you alright?” Flint’s voice came from behind him.
“I didn’t feel it when it struck down on him,” Silver said, looking ahead. “Didn’t feel it when we made our escape but,” he groaned, “I feel it now.”
“I wasn’t talking about the leg.”
Silver had feared so. For anyone to express concern over his emotional state felt smothering. But for the captain, of all people, the weight of his respect was visceral.
Flint instructed Dr Howell to give them a moment alone. The empty room felt at once vast yet claustrophobic. Two figures amidst shadows, united by the glow of a sole lantern.
“You were right, about the toll it took, playing this part,” Flint said. “Losing Miranda, the things that losing Miranda drove me to. So I know what you’re feeling at the moment.”
Silver shared how he had perceived its effects on Flint. “But there is an element of this journey into the dark that I’m only now beginning to appreciate.”
“What’s that?”
“How good it feels.”
Flint understood his confession with the empathy that he alone possessed. He nodded and closed some of the distance between them. “In the dark, you can’t see the blood on your hands.”
“Perhaps that’s for the best.”
“Until you realise that you are bleeding.” Flint caressed his left thigh, bordering between soothing and sensual. “Don’t destroy yourself,” he pleaded, “I couldn’t bear it.”
A strange fluttery feeling rushed through Silver’s heart. Knowing how deeply Flint cared for him, he felt… validated? No, vindicated. Silver had successfully manipulated Flint into protecting his virtue. Now, he could proceed with his strategy: letting Flint ruin his virtue.
Silver slowly placed his hand over Flint’s, looking up with docile eyes. He was met with a subtle, twitching smile. Their prolonged eye contact was briefly broken by Flint glancing at the door. But this did nothing to quell the tension growing between them, it only emphasised that time and privacy was limited.
“May I visit your cabin tonight?” Silver asked, barely above a whisper.
Eyes laden by the suggestion, Flint was speechless. He quickly nodded before fleeing the room. As he passed Silver, his fingers trailed up his shoulder and lingered on his neck, savouring this moment and hungry for the next.