Chapter Text
He chose her over me. He chose her over me. He chose HER over ME! the refrain continued, without fail or falter, as Anne Bonny worked her way through Nassau. Above her head, as if in tune with the woman’s mood, the sky began to darken, signalling the coming of what would no doubt be a typically brutal tropical storms.
Weather took Nassau the way a man took a woman, Jack had commented once while they waited out a storm back when they were fresh in love and he was keen on constantly impressing her with his wit and words as he was with his sexual prowess.
“It comes with a swiftness and a violence, you see,” he spoke softly, drawing a hand under Anne’s chin, tipping her chin to look up at him. He explained that the weather tries to bend Nassau to its will, but Nassau is a proud woman, and regardless of the heat, or the rain, she will remain, but she is no more capable of leaving the weather than a woman was capable of leaving a man she loved.
The bitter irony was not lost on Anne this day.
The air smelt like lightning and it was heavy with the promise of rain, humid enough to make breathing difficult. She would be wise to get inside somewhere, but there was only one place she could think to go and expect any peace, so while the men and women of Nassau flooded the streets and rushed to get home ahead of the storm, Anne took her time. A little water never hurt anyone.
This wasn’t the first time Max had caused problems for Bonny, but this was the first time the whore had been able to drive a wedge between her and Jack. Hell, this was the first time anyone had been able to accomplish that feat. If Anne didn’t hate the whore so much, she might have been impressed.
The city was under siege, but Anne wasn’t afraid. Flint’s guns would avoid the Inn and the Tavern, mostly because Guthrie and her like seemed to have aligned themselves with the Galion in the bay and Vane’s monsters knew not to lay a hand on her if at all they wished to keep it. She had “survived” Charles Vane, those were Jack’s words. In reality, Anne Bonny had done more than survive under the captaincy of a Mister Charles Vane.
She had found a shadow to hide; he offered protection from the cut eyes which seemed to be ever cast in her direction these days. When aligned with the likes of Vane, Bonny’s violence seemed more… in line. He didn’t make her look normal, but his strength and her violence worked well together, and when Jack’s charm and wits were added to the mix, the trio had made a nearly unbeatable team.
If it hadn’t been for that cunt Guthrie and the whore, Max, Anne thought, finding herself standing right in front of the Guthrie Tavern, the base of operations for their fencing as well as the only other place on this island Anne could get an unpoisoned bottle of rum and something to eat.
Her fine boned hand reached out and pulled on the coarse, iron work door pull only to find the door bolted from the inside. “The fuck?” Anne muttered to herself, tugging on it once more, then a third time just to be sure it wasn’t stuck but was indeed locked. When she heard the wooden bolt jump in its iron casements she settled on that yes, in fact the door was indeed bolted from the inside.
Back door it is, then, she thought to herself and set off towards the rear of the building. Guthrie, and most tavern owners for that matter, rarely thought to bar the back door. Even if they were trying to keep the general public out, most times they still wanted their staff to be able to enter the premises.
Anne found the back door, as she suspected, unlocked, though what she hadn’t suspected was that she would also find the kitchen attached to it entirely empty, large cauldrons left unattended, pulled off of the fires and stoves, and coarse bread and roasted pig carcasses sitting out amid the omnipresent buzz of insects.
She waved off a few of the black winged beasts and tore a crust of bread, stuffing it with a piece of hard cheese and a chunk of pork before pausing. The unmistakable sounds of a fight were going on above her head. As Bonny paused, a red eyebrow arching lightly as her head cocked, she could hear the tell take scrapping and scuffing of feet, bodies and furniture being forced a round a room across uneven wooden floors in a random fashion. That wasn’t surprising; it seemed almost natural that a fight would break out in the tavern, especially when so many men were under so much pressure. The constant bombardment from Flint’s ship in the bay was bound to set people off. What did surprise her, however, was the utter silence which the fight was going on under. There were the wet smacks and grunts of the two men involved, but not an ounce of the requisite cheering which usually accompanied a rowdy row in the tavern.
She took a bite of her makeshift bun and grabbed a bottle of rum with her free hand, hip bumping the door open and coming across a very stunned, and somewhat frightened, looking Eleanor Guthrie. She was not alone, and compared to the worried face of the other woman, Guthrie was proving to be the pinnacle of calm. Anne eyed them both skeptically as recognition registered on the blonde woman’s face.
“What the fuck are you doing here!?” she caterwauled at Anne, her surprise registering almost as much as the indignation. “Didn’t you see the front door was locked? We’re not open!”
“Came in the back,” Anne said, stuffing another bite of cheese, bread and meat into her mouth, chewing coarsely, and clearly unaffected by Guthrie’s ire. She paused for a moment to swallow the mouthful before tipping her hat covered face upwards towards the roof where the sounds of the scuffle were even more evident. “What’s all this?”
“Flint came ashore,” Eleanor said, her blue eyes following Anne’s up to the roof.
“Guess he’s not alone?”
“Charles Vane,” the other woman, her eyes impossibly large, but intelligent, boring into Anne as she felt the uncompromising urge to step back in spite of herself.
“I see.”
“He’s going to kill Flint,” Guthrie insisted, her voice clearly filled with concern.
“And with it, every chance this island has at legitimacy,” the older woman commented, still concerned but lacking Eleanor’s more… excitable nature.
She saw the two women bring their eyes back to her after all three had their attention stolen by an animalistic growl followed by a heavy thud and the sound of glass shattering. There was a moment of silence between the women before Anne turned abruptly, stuffing the last of her make shift meal into her mouth and chasing it with a swig of straight rum. The alcohol soaked the bread and meat, cutting down somewhat on the burn and the choking feeling the mealy bread gave her throat, allowing her to swallow the lump all that more easy.
“You can’t go up there!” Eleanor protested, chasing after Anne with the brunette in tow. She reached out as if to grab Bonny’s arm but thought better of the idea, recoiling her hand and pausing at the base of the grand staircase.
“Are you going to stop me?” Not a lot caused Eleanor Guthrie to stop and reconsider herself, but the look on Anne’s face held her back. There was coldness, even by Bonny’s standard, in those eyes, and the grim set on her mouth. She didn’t know Anne well, but she knew people, and this was a person who was looking for blood. She had seen that look on Charles’ face before, when she had summarily taken away his captaincy. Seeing it reflected on the softer features of a woman was even more chilling.
“What are you going to do?” the dark haired woman asked, standing behind Eleanor, looking quite a bit less useless than the younger woman, her voice strong and her expression that of a woman who had lived through quite a bit, and had spent most of her life in control of those events, even if it was through sleight of hand.
Anne thrust the fat bottomed, green glass bottle to Guthrie and settled her hands on her sabres on her waist, her eyebrows rising and head twitching slightly to the side. It was a barely perceptible motion, but the implication was clear. She was going to stop what was going on upstairs so Guthrie could reopen the tavern and she could get an actual decent meal that wasn’t crawling with bugs.
She turned away and managed to climb a full three steps before Guthrie called out to her.
“Wait!” the woman’s voice was clearly distraught, she must be over thinking things, Anne thought to herself. The red head hesitated but then stopped; turning silently to wait for whatever was so important that she had to stop Anne at this point. There was a moment of pregnant silence between them before the blonde spoke again. “Don’t kill Flint…” she whispered.
Anne’s blue eyes locked on Guthrie, then the doe eyed woman to her left. The elder woman merely nodded as Anne met her eyes, possessing what Anne thought of as incredibly regal bearing.
“Fine,” she muttered then continued skipping up the stairs.