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“No matter what anyone says or does, my task is to be emerald, my color undiminished." - Marcus Aurelius
*****
This isn’t the shittiest island they’ve careened on, but it has to be pretty fucking close.
At least there’s fresh water. And a bit of jungle, which probably means food - fruit if it's not poisonous, meat if they can hunt it. Charles had volunteered for that, but Teach had just clapped him on the shoulder with that knowing look of his, and Israel Hands had sneered at him - ugly ginger twat - and sent him to fetch wood for the cookfires. He’d been civil enough about it, what with the captain standing by. Even a mongrel like Hands knows better than to piss off Teach by fucking with his…well, whatever Charles is these days.
He’s still not really sure about that. Six months it’s been since Teach bought him off Albinus. Not him specifically - a whole bunch of slaves. Human beings loaded up for sale across the colonies, packed in with the timber and tobacco. Charles had tried to escape at the first port they’d docked in. Failed, of course, and then when they’d caught him he’d fought back with every dirty trick he’d ever learned and some he’d just made up on the spot. Knowing he couldn’t win. Hoping he might piss them off enough that he’d be killed instead of sold.
Instead Teach had freed him, after a lot of silent thoughtful staring, during which Charles had tried to seem suitably intimidated. Not that he wasn’t scared of Blackbeard - he isn’t fucking stupid. But there’s a line to walk, the right amount of fear to show respect without looking like a coward. He’d never quite nailed it as a slave; too angry, too contemptuous of those who held the whip. Now that same fire seemed to spark something in Teach.
Charles is working hard to keep that flame alight. He does everything Teach tells him, but does it with his head held high. Asks to be taught, but never begs for opportunity. Most of the crew seem to like him well enough, apart from Hands, but Hands hates fucking everyone. And they’re feeding him well - far better than he’s used to - soon he might be strong enough to join the vanguard.
No. He will be strong enough. No matter what it takes.
Until then, this is it. Wandering around this mosquito-riddled island picking up sticks. At least he’s on his own. He’s still getting used to being on a ship - how crowded it always is, no space for a man to form his thoughts in peace. Or a boy. He’d told Teach he was fifteen, but he doesn’t really know. Anyone who’d cared enough about his existence to remember when it started is long gone by now. So Charles is used to solitude, at least inside his head. Never saw the point of making room for anyone else. He hasn’t had many choices in life, but any that he’s made have been his own, and that’s how he plans to keep it.
*****
The trees are thickest close to the stream, so he follows its trail through the cloying jungle air. Tiny fish flit alongside him as he idly explores the water’s edges, dull one moment and then glittering like jewels when the sunlight catches them just right. He’s not afraid of getting lost. It’s a fucking island. If worst comes to worst he can pick a direction and keep walking until he finds the shore. There are rocks up ahead, a craggy cliff face overhung with vines as thick as Charles’ arm. A dark gash emerges from the waterline - some kind of narrow fissure in the stone. Up close he can see it’s more like a tunnel, leading to fuck knows what. Probably not more firewood.
A grown man likely wouldn’t fit. But Charles will. Charles does, even when the tunnel starts to narrow. The rocks scrape his shoulders, snagging on his too-large shirt as he treads barefoot across the cool, slippery stones of the riverbed. If he gets trapped, or injured, there’s little chance that anyone will find him. He could die here, buried alive between the rigid stone lungs of this nameless bit of earth.
But he takes the gamble anyway. Just because he can. Because nobody’s around to tell him no, or quiet, or stop your fucking crying, boy. Because he’s Charles Vane, and he’s not afraid of anything.
He clings to that knowledge. Repeats it like a prayer as the darkness starts pressing in around him. The less he can see, the more aware he becomes - of the sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead, the sound of trickling water, the smell of moss and moisture that somehow feels more like a burial than anything refreshing. The stone seems to reach for him, making him twist and turn and writhe to avoid its slimy corpse-cold touch, and he wants to turn back like he wants to fucking breathe, but who would he be if he did? I am Charles Vane, and I’m not afraid of anything. I am Charles Vane, and I’m -
Fuck. Maybe he is dead after all.
The cave looks like something from the stories his shipmates tell - the ones about monsters and mermaids and islands full of riches. The ceiling is high, taller than the mainmast on the Revenge, and there’s sunlight streaming through the massive opening in the roof. The whole place is made of some creamy-white rock that feels smooth beneath his feet. And the floor…
Well, there isn’t one.
Instead there’s a lagoon - a pool so calm and clear that he can count the rounded stones that line the bottom. The water is fresh, he can taste the lack of salt on his tongue as he breathes the air around him. And the colour… Charles has never seen anything like it. Some impossible shade that’s neither the blue of the sea nor the green of growing things, but somehow both at once. The sun filters through at just the right angle to paint the whole cavern with dancing blue-green light, shimmering and shifting on the walls so the place seems enchanted. No, it seems alive. Like he’s stumbled into the heart chamber of some beautiful, terrible sea beast. It doesn’t feel real, and at the same time it feels like the only real thing he’s ever seen.
Carefully, reverently, he perches on the outcrop of stone that juts out above the water. A ragged thing stares back at him - a face he’s seen before. Sharp cheekbones and even sharper eyes. The whipcord muscle of a much-starved creature, filling out awkwardly in fits and starts as its body grows used to being regularly nourished. His hair is growing too. They’d shaved it when they’d let him join the crew. Best thing for it, Captain - fuck knows what’s been living on the little runt. He’d told himself he didn’t mind, that it was just hair, that shaving it off whether he wanted to or not was a small price to pay for a future. He’d kept himself still as the blade nicked his scalp, as blood trickled down his neck in tacky little rivulets. It’s long enough now that he can’t see the scars anymore. He’d say that he was starting to look more like himself again, but how the fuck would he know in the first place? And besides, this isn’t really him. Just a trick of the light. The boy in the water, the half-man staring back at him is something too soft to be Charles Vane.
Without thinking twice, he strips off his clothes and dives in.
He doesn’t know how much time he spends in the cave. Doesn’t even really know what he does while he’s there. The sun oozes across the sky as he swims in the lagoon, suns himself naked on the rocks, traces the light across the walls with the tips of his fingers. There’s no point to any of it, no reward, no urgency. He wonders if this is what peace is meant to feel like.
I could stay here, he thinks. And part of him longs for it, even though he’d die without food, even though he’d be abandoning everything he’s fought for. But the light and the water and the soft, soft green all around him creates a kind of madness in his heart, a craving for a version of himself that can’t exist outside these walls. He doesn’t have a clue what that man would be like, or even if he wants to find out. It’s just that he’s never had an option before. To be something other than just what was required to survive.
The cry of a bird overhead snaps him back to reality. He peers around the cave and shivers - he shouldn’t trust this place. Like a siren it’s been lulling him, tempting him with promises of rest and ease and beauty. But those things never last. To live is to struggle, and anyone who tries to tell you differently is selling something.
That’s what he likes about Teach - he understands the truth of things. He’s never tried to bullshit Charles about what he’s really offering. It’s not a life of luxury, or comfort, or peace, for those are the things that make men weak. It’s a path to the only kind of freedom he can count on. The freedom of a lion in a world full of sheep.
So he puts on his armour - the dagger in his belt, the ill-fitting clothes that he was gifted off the backs of dead men he’ll never meet. He slithers through the darkness of the tunnel, brushing deliberately against every jagged stone and clawing root, refusing to flinch, refusing to look back at the paradise behind him. When he steps into the light it feels harsh and unforgiving, and for one fleeting moment he wants to turn around. Instead he sets his jaw, eyes forward, always forward.
I am Charles Vane, and I’m not afraid of anything.
******
By the time he returns to the camp the sun is almost set and there’s a fire already blazing. Hands is clearly pissed about how long he’s been gone, but Teach is right beside him so he keeps his mouth shut. While the ginger dickhead skulks off to take his temper out on someone less important, Charles starts building up a second fire. He’s acutely aware of Teach standing at his back, a mug of grog clutched in each massive hand.
“You were gone a while.”
The tone makes Charles’ skin prickle. Perfectly pleasant, mildly curious, perhaps a bit amused. But Teach’s affability is part of what makes him so dangerous.
“Tried to catch a few fish,” he shrugs. “Little bastards were too quick.”
He lies without thinking. With so little planning that he doesn’t even realise it’s a lie until it’s drifting on the breeze from his lips to Teach’s ears. The older man just watches him, his weathered face placid and inscrutable. Charles carries a flaming branch from the first fire to the second, forcing his hand not to tremble. I am Charles Vane, and I’m not afraid of anything.
Teach chuckles to himself and then offers him a mug. “Next time keep an eye on the horizon. Wouldn’t want to lose you wandering around in the dark.”
Charles accepts the drink, accepts the pat on the shoulder, accepts the way that Teach’s smile doesn’t quite make it to his eyes. With Teach it could be anything beneath that calm facade - worry, anger, fear, possessiveness. The hand on his shoulder is a double-edged blade; comfort bound up with obligation. Charles may be as free as any other pirate, but everything he has is tied to Teach.
*****
It’s only later, when he’s lying on his back beneath the stars, that he wonders why he didn’t tell Teach about the cave. He probably would’ve enjoyed hearing about it. Probably would’ve tried to find some kind of meaning in the place - Teach likes that sort of thing. A few weeks ago he’d asked Charles about some bird they’d seen, wondering aloud what it signified. All Charles could think was that the thing was fucking massive and would make a decent dinner. Teach had found that funny. Food is an easy thing to laugh about, it seems, when you can’t recall the last time you went hungry.
*****
“What’s this?”
Teach reacts to the question like a lion awakening from slumber. They’re in the captain’s cabin, just the two of them, going through some of the rarer items from their latest prize. Trinkets and baubles and fancy fucking teacups, all the kinds of shit that Charles can’t see the point of. But Teach wants him to learn how to estimate their value, how to judge their worth so he knows he isn’t being ripped off by the likes of Richard Guthrie. It’s fucking boring. Or it was, until a minute ago.
Hand steady, Charles holds out the ring that caught his eye. Teach studies his face for just a moment too long before accepting it, pinching it between two calloused fingers as he holds it up to the light. It’s large and silver, made for a man judging by the size of it. And the stone - that colour, that witchcraft shade of blue he can’t forget…
“It’s an emerald.”
He blinks at Teach. “Thought emeralds were green.”
“So is this,” says the older man, still studying the gem, “depending on the angle. Must be from Brazil. Or Colombia, perhaps.” Those ever-watchful eyes flick back to Charles. “You like it?”
He shrugs, affecting boredom. “Just wondered what it was.”
Teach hums thoughtfully, back to gazing at the ring. “It’s a fine piece. Fit for a Lord, I’d say.” He pauses, so easy and yet so fucking deliberate. “Or a captain.”
Charles feels the weight of that stare turned on him like a cannon. He has to fight the urge to bare his teeth.
“You could take it, if you want it,” Teach offers lazily. “Nobody would know.”
“You would.”
His captain huffs just once, quietly amused. “And you think that I’d betray you to the crew?”
Charles rolls his eyes and gives Teach a look of his own. It’s a joke. Except for the parts that aren’t. He’s finding that’s the way with Teach more often than not. A joke is a lesson, a lesson is a challenge, a challenge is a test that Charles might fail and he would never even know it.
And this? He has no idea which one this is. But he knows - deep in his guts - that accepting the ring would be the wrong choice to make. Not because it’s valuable. Not because it would make him a thief. Because he wants it. This useless, fragile, beautiful thing - it has no purpose, no place in his life. It would make him a target to wear something so valuable. Taking it could only lead to trouble and yet he wants it all the same.
And Blackbeard can see it. Charles can see him seeing it, observing with the false calm of a predator as he takes stock of his quarry’s vulnerability. The ring rests in his massive palm, nestled in a bed of scars and calluses as he holds it out.
“Last chance,” he murmurs. His tone is soft, teasing, but his eyes don’t move away from Charles’ face.
I am Charles Vane, and I’m not afraid of anything.
He meets Blackbeard’s gaze and doesn’t flinch. “Got no use for a thing like that.” He smirks. “Least not until I’m captain.”
Teach laughs honestly at that, his huge shoulders heaving with amusement. Charles grins back, but there’s a snarl tucked behind his teeth and he knows that Teach can sense it, that he likes Charles all the more for it. He’s lucky that it comes so naturally to him - this dance they dance, the ebb and flow of challenge and obedience. The lion giving shelter to the leopard as he grows into his claws.
Charles has no intention of turning them on Teach. Doesn’t want to, has no reason to. But they both know that one day, he could do exactly that. And the day that Teach forgets it is the day they should part ways. There is no respect in their world without a little bit of fear, and Charles will have respect. No matter what it costs him.
******
They make port in Ocracoke a few weeks later. Charles watches by the light of the fire as Teach gives the ring to Netta. He smiles almost sweetly as he slips it on her finger, then catches Charles observing them and winks.
Charles raises his tankard in a silent salute. He drinks his rum steadily, letting it quietly drown the hot, sick feeling in his belly.
******
They never return to that particular island. Charles considers asking, once or twice, but never follows through. If he did, they might ask questions, and he doesn’t have an answer they’d accept, or at least not one he’s willing to admit to. You can’t tell a bunch of pirates that you found a place so beautiful you don’t want another living soul to ever witness it. You can’t say to your captain, I don’t believe in god, but if I ever prayed this is where I’d go to do it.
So he keeps it to himself. Clutches it tightly to his chest, tucked between his ribs - a moment in his life that belongs to him alone. It’s neither good nor bad, neither blessing nor curse. It’s just his, and he doesn’t want to share the first thing he wasn’t given by the grace of someone else.
As time goes on, the cave becomes an echo of a memory. Sometimes he isn’t sure it even really happened. He grows into his clothes, his name, his reputation, until there is no gap between the man he is and who he could become. Until everyone in Nassau knows exactly who he is.
I am Charles Vane, and I’m not afraid of anything .
But every now and then, he dreams in emerald.