Chapter Text
He wakes up to the heavy taste of salt in his mouth.
The sharp tang is enough to make Silver blink once or twice, his tongue darting out to taste the crystals embedded on his cracked lips. There’s a creak when he shifts his weight in his hammock, and already he can feel the warmth of the sun coming through the deck above him. As Silver lets his eyes slide open just slightly, he can see the outlines of the men in the hammocks around him, swaying softly in their sleep.
Then the recognition of where he is, comes, and the breath catches in his chest.
Silver squeezes his eyes shut, before opening them fully once again. But he can still see the slumbering frames of the men around him. Dooley’s curly hair is faintly illuminated by the light from the porthole, as are the knuckles of Joji’s hand brushing the floor across from them, the sharp profile of Dobbs in the corner there-
Men that have been long dead by. Men that Silver hasn’t seen in years.
There’s a whistle above them, on the deck, one that Silver recognizes even after all this time as a shift change. Next to him, another man- Joshua, Silver’s mind provides the name for him- stirs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, as Silver continues to stare around him, “Feels like I just went to sleep.”
Silver doesn’t reply, lest a hysterical laugh bubble out instead. He shuts his eyes again, but it’s no use. This is no nightmare. There are no bloodied or screaming figures before him.
No, this is something else. Perhaps he’s died, and this is his purgatory. Perhaps he is doomed to atone for his sins between the salt-sticky planks of wood of the Spanish warship, out of all things, and the sun beating on his back forever. Maybe this is hell, which he’s always known where he’ll end up after all. But as he tastes the salt on his tongue once again, he wonders why he feels so much less lonely in this moment.
In the end, Silver decides to play along and he rises. He swings his feet over the side to put them in those old, scuffed boots that he vaguely remembers, as the men around him get up as well.
It doesn’t escape him that he has two legs. Before he can move, he just has to flex the left foot on instinct, shaking his head slightly at the incredulity of it all.
He follows the men up to the deck, where he half-expects to see the ship around him on flames. But no, instead it seems as normal as his memories of Nassau could ever be, the men bustling past him back down into the ship to catch a few hours of slumber, the bitter smell of sea and wood and sweat around them. They’re anchored in the bay, and Silver can see the outline of the fort in the distance.
He’s busy taking it all in when there’s a bump at his shoulder. He glances over, and nearly does a double-take at the man there.
“Shouldn’t you be headed to shore?” Dufresne asks, his mouth twisted into a frown. He looks remarkably healthy for a man Silver clearly remembers putting a metal shoe through his skull. He can still hear the sickening thud.
“Shore,” Silver says, somewhat faintly.
“Yes, the shore,” Dufresne repeats impatiently, then squints at him. “You look terrible.”
“It’s nothing,” Silver says, and he shifts his weight on his two feet. “I just had a strange dream.”
“Either way, you’re late,” Dufresne informs him. “Captain Hornigold is coming in an hour’s time, and Flint has made it clear-”
Silver reels. Even as the man keeps on talking, he can’t believe-
If this is some hellish reconstruction, he realizes that it would only make sense to hallucinate him as well. Silver realizes what he needs to do, what he needs to see, then, and it’s all he can think about right then.
He pushes by Dufresne, not caring as the other man complains, and he makes his way to the captain’s cabin. The wooden door is closed, but Silver pushes it open, and when he steps inside, he can feel his heart fluttering in his throat.
Across the room, Flint glances up from where the maps are spread across the desk. His brow is furrowed, but he’s right there in front of him, hair long and curling over his ears. Silver is not prepared for the violent relief that floods his system at the sight, and it’s like all the air has left his lungs, fixed under those green eyes.
“Mr. Silver,” Flint says in a familiar, dangerous tone, and even though he hasn’t heard that particular tone in years, and it certainly does not bode well for him, Silver can’t help the smile that spreads out across his face. He lets the door close behind him, as Flint continues, “I thought I made it clear that it was in your best interests to be convincing Vane’s men on shore- why the fuck are you grinning?”
Silver tries to tamp down on his expression, but it’s nearly a lost cause, and he only manages to school his features after a few moments of struggling. “Apologies, captain.”
Flint’s eyes narrow, and Silver is still drinking him in, cataloging every freckle, every scrape on his jaw, the pale skin on the top of his hands- “What are you looking at?”
“Can’t I just look at you?” Silver replies without thinking, and he only realizes his mistake when Flint abruptly stands up then.
This isn’t the Flint he remembers, but at the same time, it is. It’s Flint from a long time ago, before the war, before Charleston even- and even though Silver’s not quite sure what’s happening in this moment, he instinctively knows that he needs to play along to whatever this is.
“You should take care to listen when I say this,” Flint says in a low, menacing tone. “Despite whatever allowance I might have made towards your survival on this ship, we are not friends. You are still alive because I have allowed it. Do not mistake that for any sort of forgiveness, or any chance of a future.”
He pauses, and perhaps if this were another world, Silver would have pursed his lips, said something smart before turning on his heel. But it isn’t, and Silver can barely breathe at the sight of the man across from him. Flint must see that, for his brow slackens in surprise at whatever must be strewn right across Silver’s face, and he actually takes a step to the side of his desk, as if to get closer to Silver.
“What happened?” Flint demands then, searching his expression, and Silver has never been able to stand up to that sort of scrutiny from him.
He finally manages to secure his features, tugging them into a place close to nonchalance. He needs to get away, to gather his thoughts now that he’s beginning to suspect what has happened here, and he can’t- he won’t do it in front of Flint. Not now.
“Nothing at all, captain,” Silver lies, heart hammering in his chest. “Is that all?”
•••
He gets above deck, and vomits over the side. A few of the men whistle, making snide comments about too much rum, and Silver can’t find it in him to pay them any mind. He wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve, tries to run his fingers through a beard that isn’t there- and god, even the shirt he’s wearing takes him back- and tries to think.
The last thing Silver remembers before any of this was drifting to sleep in a tavern, far away in Bristol. Now he’s woken up on the warship, years in the past, or so it seems. It’s clear that he’s not dreaming, that somehow he has been sent into the past, but he can’t for the life of him try to piece together how (or perhaps more importantly, why).
Memories start to drift back to him, as he tries to gauge exactly when he’s been sent back to. They’re still on the warship, and no one is firing at the fort, so Silver has a rough estimate that it must be during the few days they spent in the harbor, plotting to take back the island from Charles Vane. Bits and pieces of memories flit back in his head, of simpler times, ones in which his greatest concern was himself, after all.
Which makes him think- Madi. She would still be on the Maroon island, of course, tucked away in a corner where England had not grasped at with weathered talons yet. It hits him low in the stomach when he realizes he can’t seek her out. He wouldn’t have even met her for another few months at the very least.
Christ. He’s making plans for the future already. Two minutes in this strange world, one where he has both legs and Flint and the gold is at his fingertips-
The gold-
Silver hates that fucking gold.
In that moment, he makes a decision.
When the door slams open to Flint’s cabin, the captain barely has the time to glower before Silver blurts out, “The gold. It’s undefended on the island. The men all are dying from a tropical disease and it’s for our taking if we so wish.”
There’s a beat, and then Flint is rising again, angry, but his face is twisted in confusion now “What do you mean?”
“I mean, there are ten million pieces of gold sitting on that beach. Virtually unguarded. We have the ship, the men- we need to sail out now,” Silver says. Before Flint can say anything to that, he adds, “I can’t tell you how I know this, but you need to trust me.”
Flint scoffs. “Trust you? I would trust any one of the other rotten fucks on board this ship before I would trust you. Tell me how you know, and tell me now”
“I can’t do that,” Silver begins after a long pause, and he takes a step back when Flint is suddenly right in front of him, now snarling and so full of righteous fury just like he remembers, it takes his breath away all over again. “I can’t. Kill me if you’d like, but I can’t tell you.”
“Why did you tell me,” Flint murmurs then, his voice still low but now he’s looking at Silver closely, his eyes shifting over his face. Despite how close he is to no doubt throttling Silver, Silver closes his eyes, already knowing the words that are about to come, “Why not take the gold for yourself? Surely you’ve realized that you’ve lost an opportunity for yourself by telling me this. Why not concoct some scheme in which your share suddenly goes up?”
Silver opens his eyes then, and Flint’s eyes are much greener than he remembers, and he’s lost in memories that haven’t even happened yet- if they even will happen- for a moment before he answers. “Because we would be much better as partners than rivals, and I think you know that too.”
“You think yourself to be a worthy rival?” Flint says then, a hint of a sneer on his expression. Silver can’t help the soft smile that spreads over his face, because this Flint- still young and somehow less battered than the last time he’d seen him- still knows an opportunity just as well as Silver does.
“I think that you need me, and I need you,” he says, the most honest words he’s ever said, and he’s treated to Flint’s expression of surprise, his eyes widening and softening despite his clenched fists, and Silver realizes then that he can’t let this go. That perhaps there is a gift in purgatory.
Flint gives a low laugh then, his breath brushing over Silver’s face, and he takes a step back, taking the warmth of his body back with him. “Very well. We’ll go to the beach. If it’s not there, I’ll personally dispose of your body. If it’s there-”
“It will be there,” Silver tells him, and he thinks that Flint’s eyes glitter even brighter than the piles of gold that are waiting for them. “But what do we do about Hornigold?”
“Fuck Hornigold,” Flint says decisively, taking another step back to the desk, his eyes already glazed over in thought. “We’re going after that gold.”
•••
In between that moment and the next, there’s a jerking sensation around his navel, and Silver gasps. Only he’s no longer there in front of Flint, changing both of their paths no doubt. Darkness flickers in the corner of his vision, and as he blinks rapidly to clear his eyes, he’s no longer on the ship, either.
Out of all places, he’s in Eleanor Guthrie’s office, and his hand is handcuffed to one of the ratty lounges tucked in the corner.
The woman herself is at the desk, and when he sucks in another disbelieving breath, she looks up, annoyed. “Flint told me that you would remain absolutely silent,” Eleanor says tersely, nodding to the figure besides him- and if it isn’t Randall, snoring on the lounge above him. “Shall I call him back in to take care of you?”
Silver wants to tell her, Please do, but he figures that he isn’t immortal even in this strange world. He vaguely remembers the start to his voyage on the Walrus, the time he’d spent cooped up in the Guthrie office while Flint was out fighting god knows who.
“Pardon,” he says, lifting his wrist with a clang. “I seem to have forgotten my place.”
Eleanor squints at him in a look not unlike of the captain himself, but doesn’t say anything. He waits, then, as she gathers papers and leaves not long after, leaving him and Randall alone.
Silver then had stayed, caught between the promise of the Urca gold and terrified of Flint hunting him down, but Silver now breaks the leg of the lounge with his foot and a hard kick. Randall slides down, as the furniture groans and crumples a bit, but the man still doesn’t stir from his post-amputation haze.
Silver slides the handcuff of the edge, and it’s a matter of minutes, searching around Eleanor’s office until he finds a hairpin.
He rubs his wrist as he ducks out of the office, glancing down both sides before escaping down the stairwell. He sticks close to the wall, where no one pays him much mind as he slides out onto the busy street, disappearing into the crowd.
If Flint before was barely open to his ideas, the Flint now would most certainly rather kill him and be done with him, map be damned. He needs to make a plan- to convince Flint that he should stay alive, and more importantly stay on board.
He catches the arm of a man he doesn’t recognize, and smiles disarmingly like he used to. The muscles hurt on his face as he asks, “Say now, do you know when the Walrus departs?”
“Flint’s ship?” The man asks, and Silver nods, keeping his smile in place, even as the man takes an absurd amount of time to consider, “It’s still in the harbor. They were loading it, I think.” He glances down at Silver’s hand on his arm then.
“Excellent,” Silver says, letting his arm go. Before he finds Flint, there’s someone else he needs to find.
•••
It’s only when he’s in the brothel that he remembers that then, Max was not the madam. Instead, he makes eye contact with Mr. Noonan- the name comes to him after a long moment- and he slides a pile of gold over the counter to get a room.
When Max enters, Silver is surprised for a moment that the proud, controlled woman is the same in front of him. She looks pale, her eye makeup smudged, and there’s astonishment on her features when she sees him.
“You,” Max hisses then, and she takes a step back towards the door. “I do not know why you are here, or how you are here, but you will get out before-”
“Now hang on,” Silver says, raising his hands in what he hopes is a soothing gesture, and Max tracks his hands with her eyes, “I’m not here about the gold. I need your help.”
She laughs bitterly “I do not wish to help you, John Silver,” she says. Then she must look at him, really look, because something else shifts in her eyes. “You look different.”
“Well, I’ve had a trying day,” Silver says, but Max’s expression shutters even more.
“No,” Max says, “You are different.” She takes a step back away from him. “There is something in your eyes that I cannot place. What happened?”
Silver opens his mouth, but then the door to the bedroom is slamming open.
They both jump, Max moving away from the door already, but Silver is frozen under the hard gaze of Flint. He looks between them for a moment, barely glancing at Max before advancing on them- on Silver.
Before he can even flinch, Flint has a hand wrapped around his throat. He shoves him into the wall so hard that it sends dark spots into the edges of his vision. He can hear soft footsteps as Max scurries away, as he sees Flint in this particular new situation up close and personal, eyes furious just like before.
If in the previous situation Flint was angry with him, he’s enraged now. There’s not even a suggestion there’s nothing but malice in his eyes, and even though it’s something Silver has lived through, it’s still jarring.
“You thieving snake,” Flint hisses, and Silver gasps then, hand coming up to Flint’s wrist to no avail, scrabbling with his blunt nails. “You thought you could just escape me? On my island?”
“Wait, wait-” Silver garbles out, and Flint releases his grip just enough for Silver to cough. He squeezes again though when Silver takes too long, and Silver is reminded of how they first met- Flint’s teeth coated in blood, clutching at every last ounce of power he could muster as they watched.
“Speak,” Flint orders, other hand no doubt going to the knife at his waist, the one that Silver knows he keeps there because of a failed encounter with a French sloop.
(The one that Flint had given him, both in the past and the future, to practice fighting in close quarters, only Silver never quite got around to giving it back, and they had been younger and it had been good-)
“I was no good to you chained up in that office,” Silver argues, even though Flint’s eyes have that maniacal glint about them when he’s irrational with his hatred, “There’s a reason I didn’t escape to Port Royal the moment I broke free!”
“You and the whore are just conniving to get that gold,” Flint snarls, and he draws the knife out fully. “By all means, try to convince me why I shouldn’t kill you here and now, be rid of you for good.”
“Stop-” Silver chokes out, as best as he can with the pressure increasing on his windpipe. To his credit, Flint doesn’t continue strangling him, but neither does he remove the knife that’s now placed just above the base of Silver’s neck. “I said we could be friends. What if I told you that could be the case?”
Flint doesn’t move, but he doesn’t kill Silver either, so Silver continues, “What you want for this island, it doesn’t come at a fair price. To get what you want, you have had to climb uphill, to fight with every last breath. What I am offering you, it will help you, I guarantee it.”
Flint’s eyes narrow even more, and once again Silver internally curses the lack of familiar ground between them, how far they have to go by this point.
“I know that you’re desperate, at this point,” Silver rushes to say, trying to get the words out before Flint can actually kill him. “I know that you need all the friends you can get. I know that you are ashamed of who you have had to become to get these things, the sacrifice, to endure the stories they tell of you in this world-”
“Sacrifice,” Flint hisses, pressing him even more against the wall. “You know nothing about sacrifice-”
“You wouldn’t-” Silver says, then he hisses in pain when the knife cuts ever so slightly, no doubt drawing a thin line of blood. “Fuck! Don’t-”
“Perhaps I’m every bit the monster in those stories they tell of me,” Flint says in a low tone then, and something in Silver’s blood runs cold at the hollowness of his tone. This is not the Flint he remembers - is it? His memories from this long ago are so blurred by nostalgia and grief that it’s possible he’s forgotten just how destructive this Flint was.
“You’re no monster,” Silver gets out, trying to look at him right in the eye. “You loved once, and when they took him-”
He knows it’s precisely the wrong thing to say the moment the words spill out of his mouth, careless in his hurry to get Flint to trust him, even as he shuts his mouth too late. Flint’s eyes widen impossibly, and he steps back as though Silver has managed to strike him.
Even though Silver has not said the name, he knows they’re both thinking it.
He doesn’t know about Thomas. The thought makes Silver cold on the inside, but right now, he has much greater immediate concerns, like the way that Flint has gone from spitting to utterly still.
“How,” Flint says hoarsely, not even a question anymore, as his eyes now take Silver in an entirely different light. He looks betrayed, hurt, not unlike when Silver had held a gun to his head in the middle of a forest clearing. Silver tries to correct this dangerous course this conversation has taken, but it’s clear that the damage has been done.
“You wouldn’t believe me.” The words have a finality about them, and Silver raises his hands, now free of Flint’s grasp, in a last-ditch effort. “I could tell you b-”
The words come to a screeching halt out of his mouth once Flint steps close once again, only there’s a sickening sound coming from between them. Silver is only dimly aware of the pain that radiates from his gut once Flint steps back again, wet knife in his hand. He can feel the warmth of blood trickling down the front of his shirt, dripping onto the floor, and he falls to his knees in front of Flint.
“You-” Silver tries to get out, but already blood is filling his mouth. He slumps to the floor, then, staring up at the other man.
Above him, Flint’s detached expression floats in his vision, and Silver watches as he runs a shaking hand over his jaw, the shock and emptiness of it all overwhelming. There are specks of blood on his face, Silver’s blood, and Silver has the urge to wipe it off, to touch his face once again.
He closes his eyes. Perhaps this is his purgatory.
He can’t say he doesn’t deserve it.
•••
Then there’s another jerking sensation, a feeling that is familiar now, and Silver opens his eyes to crystal blue skies.
The taste of blood is gone from his mouth, but it’s replaced by an awful kind of dryness. The sort that Silver remembers, as he runs his tongue over the front of his teeth, feeling the corners of his mouth cracking, so he knows exactly where and when he is now.
They’re trapped in the doldrums on board the Walrus. The air is heavy above him, and as he squints in the sunlight, he can’t tell what time of day it is beyond the thick waves of heat that radiate down from the sun, the stillness from the lack of wind.
He can hear faint groans around him, men shifting, trying desperately to hide from the heat, the lack of food, water. He remembers the heat sapping every bit of energy from his muscles, but what he doesn’t remember is which day this is.
From his best estimates, time seeming to slow around him as he studies the scene before him, it’s towards the end of the time when they were trapped on the Walrus. Around the time that they had truly started down the descent of madness, a ship of desperate man trapped together like a pack of wolves in a cage for too long.
Silver’s beginning to think that he’s being forced to live the memories that have haunted over the years - yet if he’s able to change the events, are they really memories? His head hurts so much, from exhaustion and lack of everything that he might fall asleep for a few moments, or perhaps days - until there’s a hand shaking his shoulder awake.
Silver opens his eyes blearily to Billy looming over him. “The captain’s requesting you,” he tells him, his mouth in a grim line, and even though Silver wonders what would happen if he refuses, if he instead gets up only to throw himself over the edge into the too-still water, end this trip for good, perhaps - he rises, and he goes to the cabin.
Billy leaves him at the door, and when Silver takes a steadying breath, opening the door, the sight of Flint still takes his breath away.
Flint is more gaunt than he remembers, and when he speaks, the tight skin of his face stretched over the hollows under his eyes, the slenderness of his starved jaw not quite hidden by the cropped beard. Even though to Silver, it seems just moments ago that Flint was sliding a knife right between his ribs, he can’t explain the clench of his heart at the sight of him being due to fear.
Flint frowns, and Silver realizes he hasn’t said anything in response, as he snaps to attention too late. “Forgive me,” Silver says heavily, and those words are some of many that he should have said a long time ago.
Flint keeps on looking at him, then. Silver remembers that they were the only two men on full rations, but still, his stomach clenches in protest. “You’re not well,” Flint states.
A hollow laugh bubbles out of Silver’s chest. “We’re trapped,” Silver tells him, “Trapped on this ship. I don’t think any of us are doing well right now.” Even with the knowledge that they make it out of here- that they survive this - he can’t help the trickles of fear and doubt that leaks into his voice. He thinks that before, he was partially delusional by now, but right in this moment, his mind is clear and sharp.
Flint dismisses him soon after, and Silver leaves to go back to where he was lying down before. He wonders if he should try to change something, like he did last time, but decides to let it play out, to see if that’s the torture he needs to endure in order to get out of this pattern.
Then Silver’s watching Flint put bullets into the heads of two men kneeling before him. When he goes back to his cabin, afterwards, Silver follows him.
They had never talked about this, Silver realizes, when he opens the door, and the small amount of light reveals Flint’s tear-stained expression. He’s slumped on the ground, in front of the bookshelves, and even as anger soon twists his features, Silver steps in and closes the door behind him.
“Get out.” The words are cold, another barrier Flint tries to put up between them, yet Silver can’t look away from his contorted expression, the heave of his shoulders as he tries to hide his stuttering breaths.
“Captain-” Silver swallows the title, and he says again, in a quieter tone, “Flint.”
“I said get the fuck out,” Flint snarls, and Silver crosses the room and kneels down beside him instead.
Flint is curled up on himself, and when Silver lowers himself, ever mindful of the peg leg, beside him, he tightens his grip on his knees so that he’s even farther away from Silver. A painful knot tightens inside of Silver’s chest, as he sees Flint looking torn between hiding his face and lashing out at Silver right then and there.
“I know,” Silver tells him softly, and Flint’s eyes are bloodshot and wet and furious but he’s there, he’s right there in front of him, and Silver isn’t about to give that up, even if it means dying by his hand again and again.
“Whatever you’re trying,” Flint says thickly, and even when he swabs a sleeve over his face, Silver keeps watching him, “I’d advise you to reconsider, Mr. Silver.”
Silver puts a hand on his shoulder, then, and Flint stiffens under his palm. “I know,” Silver repeats, and now there’s an ugly expression brewing on Flint’s face.
“Why?” Flint demands. “What are you doing in here-”
“I’m sorry,” Silver says again. He’d scream it to the world if he could, if that would convince the man in front of him. In this time then, he’d thought Flint to be a god, one who reached through miles of clouds in a divine act to pull a storm into their path, just to suit his own needs. In front of him now, Silver is reminded of the man behind that power, the one who had his world ripped out from underneath his feet and was paying the cost for what the world had deemed his crime.
“You don’t know anything,” Flint tells him in a low voice, and Silver winces for reasons that this Flint doesn’t even know, not yet.
“I’m sorry you had to do that,” Silver says, and Flint makes a noise low in his throat. “I’m sorry that you’ve had to carry this burden, by yourself. I’m sorry.”
Flint’s still staring at him, and Silver readies himself for this pained Flint to lash out, maybe to break his neck, dash his head on the heavy desk behind him-
But then Flint’s exhaling, the air leaving his lungs in a stuttered sound. He lets his head fall back onto the bookshelf, and Silver watches him, hand still on him.
“The Titan Atlas,” Flint says, his eyes now closed, and Silver swallows, “He was forced to hold up the sky for all of eternity. When Heracles needed to collect the golden apples from Hera’s garden, he came to Atlas, and he offered to hold the sky for him so that Atlas would collect the apples.”
Silver lets his fingers spread out ever so slightly on the warm point of Flint’s shoulder, feeling the muscle move underneath, as Flint continues, “But when Atlas came back with the apples, he didn’t want to go back to holding the sky. So Heracles asked for his help for a moment, to allow him to adjust the weight. When Atlas complied, Heracles had tricked him into shouldering the heavens once more, and then he left with the golden apples.”
“Are you comparing yourself to Atlas?” Silver asks after a long moment, watching the flutter of Flint’s eyelids. “Am I the one who tricks you?”
Flint opens his eyes then, and Silver can see the dried paths of his tears still etched on the surface of his skin. “If I were Atlas, I would have never given up the weight,” Flint says, “It is worse to think that there might be relief from such burden. However fleeting the happiness is, it always goes away.”
That lesson, Silver knows. He lets his head fall forward, until he can feel each of Flint’s shuddering exhales on his skin, and they sit there on the ground for a long time, as Silver is helpless against Flint’s inner turmoil.
He thinks he prefers Flint killing him, after all.
•••
He feels the tug at his center, and when he opens his eyes next, this time Silver finds himself on Maroon Island.
There’s a warmth at his side, and when Silver turns his head, he’s greeted by the sight of Madi curled up next to him, her hand resting lightly on his chest.
She looks so young as Silver watches her sleep, a luxury that he had somehow forgotten over the years, before her dark eyes open slowly. “Either sleep or get up,” Madi murmurs, but there’s no heat in her words. “I’ll not have you thinking so loudly right now.”
Silver reaches over so that he can put a hand on the side of her face, and Madi leans into the touch, her face unlined and unworried. “My apologies,” Silver says, a lump in his throat, and he leans in to kiss her.
Madi hums in reply, and when Silver pulls back once more, her eyes are already open. “You should go now,” Madi says, a yawn briefly coming over her. “He will be waiting for you.”
Flint. Silver remembers then, the clang of metal on metal, the countless afternoons they had spent on the top of the cliff practicing and talking. Something in his face must show, for Madi opens her eyes more, taking in his expression. “John?”
“Nothing,” Silver gets out, and leans down to press a kiss to her forehead, trying to hide his shaking. “You should rest.”
Madi makes an assenting noise, then her eyes already slipping closed once again. It’s relatively early in the day, and Silver remembers how Flint had made him practice twice a day, in the morning and in the afternoon, when he had gotten better at swordplay. Then, Silver had grumbled at being awake at such an early hour, because war or not, they all required sleep. Flint had laughed, his face open and eyes fond, because of course he only needed a handful of hours to keep going.
Silver slips out of Madi’s grasp once she’s asleep, carefully pulling a blanket over her fully before he puts on the peg leg that’s lying beside the bed. Flint will have a crutch waiting for him up at the cliffside, Silver remembers, and when he leaves the hut, he wonders if this time, he’ll be allowed to stay.
He thinks if he were to be allowed to choose a time to stay in, it would be now. In this time, before Nassau is ruined, before he digs up the gold, before he watches Flint over the barrel of a gun, before it all is destroyed.
He thinks that with whatever is happening, he should savor these memories as much as he can before he is cruelly yanked away.
The village is quiet as he cuts through the rows of huts and buildings, and as he makes his way up into the hill, the path coming back to him as he walks, Silver can see the sun just beginning to rise over the dark line of the ocean.
Flint is waiting for him, facing the sea with his arms crossed behind him. Silver approaches quietly, but just as he remembers, Flint hears him. He turns around just as Silver reaches the top of the hill.
“Shall we?” Flint asks, picking up a sword, and Silver lets himself breathe in.