Chapter Text
The storm they’ve emerged from was an odd one. A sickly yellow sky, bruised, and then a vicious sea erupting; the Revenge had been tossed around like a toy, uncaring, and it’d taken four of them just to hold her pointed into the storm, after barely getting enough time to get the sails stowed. If Ed’s being honest with himself, they probably didn’t deserve to get through it at all, and it’s a bit of a miracle really that there doesn’t appear to be any damage to the ship - when the winds had got up he’d thought for sure they’d lose a mast, had resigned himself to it.
But here they are, emerging unscathed, some-fucking-how. Stede seems unperturbed, and Ed can’t really tell if that’s because he’s such a sunny fucking optimist or he still doesn’t have a clue, but when Ed goes down to find him in the cabin Stede picks his way clear of the mess of his restocked library - books dumped haphazardly on the floor by the pitch and roll of the ship, a brilliant grin on his face - and he sweeps Ed into a fiercely cheerful hug, Ed thinks: couldn’t have worked out any other way.
“Got through all right, then!” Stede says. “Seemed a touch hairy for a few minutes there. I don’t suppose you’re here to tell me we lost someone overboard.” He sounds vaguely excited by the thought, which makes sense; always interested in new aspects of the piratical experience, this one.
“Nah,” Ed says. “Managed to keep everyone alive, ‘sfar as I can tell.”
“Lovely.” Stede claps his hands together. “No reefs or sandbars to get beached on?”
“No.” Ed tries not to let his amusement show on his face, fails. He’s about to suggest to Stede that there might be something they can add to the journal about seasickness, if the pale, green-tinged faces he’d seen emerging from belowdecks had been any indication, but he’s interrupted in the thought by a shout from abovedecks.
“Captains,” and that’s Buttons. “You’ll want to see this, sirs.”
Stede exchanges a glance with him, all excitement. “Shall we?”
“After you,” Ed says, because he’s got manners now, and shit.
Up on the quarterdeck, Buttons and Izzy both are squinting into the middle distance. Buttons looks vaguely apprehensive. Izzy looks neutral, but Ed rarely sees him with any other sort of expression these days. It gets him on edge; if he comes out with anything nasty Ed's pretty certain he's going to snap, but he doesn't have time to think about it, because Buttons clears his throat.
"Mysterious." He jerks his chin at the horizon; at the island. It's a pretty fucking unremarkable island, as far as these things go. Ed's not really sure where the mystery comes into it.
"Oh!" Stede says. "Why's that?"
"We've conferred," Buttons says, with a glance to the side at Izzy - who nods, still neutral, "and based on our last known position, and how far it's reasonable to expect we might've drifted, there's no island on any of our charts that could be."
Ed squints at it, in the distance. It remains unremarkable. And he's never worried too much about the accuracy of their charts. He's not counting on Stede, though; how this particular pronouncement couldn't be more perfectly crafted to grab the whole of his attention.
"An uncharted island?!" Stede's practically vibrating with delight, and it's ridiculous but Ed feels the side of his mouth tug up into a half smile anyway. "Well we'll have to go ashore, then, won't we?"
"I might suggest, sir," Buttons begins, "you exercise some c–"
"Oh don't be dull," Stede says, cheerful. "Not very adventurous of you, is it?"
There's a small scoffing noise then - disdain. Izzy. Stede's eyes flick to him.
"Could be worth a reccy," Ed says, over the top of the burgeoning disagreement, digging his nails into his palms. "Could stock up, if there's anything worth taking. Refill some water. You know." He's trying to be practical; doesn't exactly come easily to him. Not normally his job.
Izzy clears his throat. "The water," he says, a little reluctantly, "is getting lowish." It's a concession: both of them know it. Ed claps him on the shoulder. It's not a warning, he tells himself. It's just acknowledgment. Izzy doesn't flinch, but he does go tense.
"Well that's settled, then!" Stede says, and if Buttons and Izzy can hear that it's forced neither of them give any sign. "Shall we - sort out the logistics, or–“
Izzy pointedly walks away from the conversation, and Stede stumbles over a pause, but then continues on. “Well. We’ll just - gather everyone on deck, shall we?”
In Ed’s experience it’s just quicker to order people to do things. It still catches him off guard, Stede’s little idiosyncrasies, like this - gathering everyone in a circle to talk through how they’re going to do something, but the crew are at least keen to go ashore. There’s a bit of a back-and-forth about who’s going to do what, and whether they should just explore the place first or head out ready to take supplies back to the ship, and there’s an objectively correct answer to that (no point lugging all the shit ashore if there’s nothing on the island worth taking back) but they talk their way around to the right outcome eventually, so Ed doesn’t intervene.
Mostly, it seems like they’re excited about having a break. Seems like things belowdecks were pretty unpleasant during the storm. He’s musing on that, on whether they should’ve dragged everyone up on deck for it (not really bothered by storms, himself - not any more at least - but some of the others are still leery about them), when he realises he can’t see Stede anymore.
And he can’t see Izzy, either. That’s alarming.
Trying not to look like he’s bolting, Ed gets to his feet and heads back towards the cabin - the only place he can think Stede would have gone, dogged by the unpleasant certainty that they've absconded to yell at eachother about something. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to not-so-subtly insert himself in the middle of an argument.
Ed knows why Izzy left, in the middle of Ed's madness - the Kraken's madness, he reminds himself, it wasn't him at all - but the fact that he'd left to find Stede, to bring him back, to put an end to it; Ed's never quite gotten to the bottom of whatever got them working together. Working together remarkably well, too; the well-executed fuckery that'd got Stede back aboard the Revenge with the rest of his crew had definitely had Izzy's fingerprints all over it.
He should have asked for details then, Ed knows, but he hadn't been in a position to ask sensible questions, distracted as he was. By the time he'd realised how little he knew about what had happened, the moment to ask had passed. Stede himself has never offered the information, and Ed can’t seem to find the words to bring it up again. The only thing he knows is that things between Izzy and Stede are–
“I'm not fucking going anywhere, Bonnet.” Snarling.
–tense, Ed thinks, grim.
“Yes you are,” Stede hisses back. “You’ve been an unpleasant little bastard for weeks, and it’s making him miserable. Fucking - go ashore, make some fucking conversation.“
“I thought that was your job.” Izzy sounds pissed off, but rehearsed; like this is an argument they’ve had before. It is an argument they've had before, Ed knows, but he can never seem to catch the start of it, and try as he might he can't identify the undercurrents below the surface of the words, not without - more. “I’m just here to run your fucking ship–”
“Don't be such a sore loser–”
That’s probably the right moment, Ed thinks, and swings the door open with more force than is really necessary. “Stede! Iz. Great. You’re both here. Can I–“
“I was just leaving,” Izzy says smoothly, fishes a chart off the table. “Was going to–“
“Like hell,” Stede interrupts. It’s pissy. Ed knows that tone, and he steels himself for the fight; he's irritated with Izzy, too, but he knows better than to immediately throw his chips in with Stede. “You’re not going fucking anywhere. Ed, Izzy needs to go ashore too.”
"I don't need to do shit," Izzy says. "Except keep this boat fucking running. Which I can do from here."
"Edward," Stede appeals.
The look Izzy fixes him with is heavy. Ed feels his jaw set. “I dunno, Stede," he says, pointedly meeting Izzy's gaze. "If he doesn’t want to, I’m not going to force him, am I?”
Izzy begins to hiss something, furious, and Ed feels his own anger rising to breaking point. The tension between them pulls tight, and then–
–then Stede slices through it, all unknowing. “Well,” he says, having come to some sort of decision. “The thing is, I don’t think I’ll be joining you.”
“What,” Ed says, dumbly; realises Izzy has said it in unison, and immediately tries not to think about it.
“Yes,” Stede says, growing a little more confident in what’s obviously a snap decision. “You’re both constantly trying to impress on me the need for there to be some sort of authority remaining on board, and I’ve been meaning to talk to Buttons anyway.”
“But - the adventure,” Ed says, feeling stupid even as he says it. He can feel Izzy, radiating irritation.
Stede smiles briefly. “Yes, well. Suppose it’s my turn to sit one of those out. And if I’m not going then who’s going to watch out for him, hm,” he directs this last to Izzy, nodding in Ed’s direction.
“This is transparent, Bonnet, you prick,” Izzy says, but it’s resigned. “But fine. I’ll go ashore.” He looks up at Ed, sighs. “See you on deck, boss.” And then he leaves, stomping out of the cabin, and Ed waits until he can’t hear him anymore before raising his eyebrows at Stede.
“What the fuck?”
“He’s being difficult,” Stede says, plaintive. “I don’t understand it. I thought you might be able to talk some sense into him.”
“Going ashore was your idea.” Ed doesn't want to talk about Izzy being difficult, but Stede apparently does; he waves a hand, impatient.
“Of course it was. Thought it'd be a nice break for the crew, it’ll do them good. But you two." He fixes Ed with his gaze. "Don't think I haven't noticed that you're at eachother's throats as much as he's at mine. Perhaps it might help, having a conversation somewhere I can’t overhear it.” He says this matter-of-fact, as though Ed hasn’t been stubbornly ignoring the fact that things are strange for weeks now, as though he and Stede have been talking about it openly rather than Ed refusing to address it. They’re taking it in turns, getting better at directness.
“Stede,” Ed says. “I don't think that’s–“
Stede sighs. "Edward." It's so - severe. Steely. Ed can't shake the sense of being spoken down to, and he has to bite back on the urge to snap.
“Fine,” he says, stiffly. “All right. See if I can talk him ‘round.”
“If nothing else,” Stede says, voice dry, “perhaps you can convince him to be politer about the fact that he despises me.”
“It’s not - that’s not what it is,” Ed says, and he’s certain of it; Izzy wouldn’t have risked everything on someone he despises. “I don’t know what it is, but–“
“I'm quite certain, but if you think it's something else, perhaps you could find out what?” Stede sounds frustrated, short. “I’m getting quite sick of the open contempt.”
“I’ll… I’ll talk to him." Ed gives Stede a quick smile, humourless. "Can fall back on an order, if I have to."
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
When they get ashore, the crew melt away from them. It's hard not to draw conclusions about why, but Izzy doesn't seem to care, staring into the overgrown jungle like he can clear a path just by scaring it into submission. He points, all business - "looks like our best bet," - and starts off into the undergrowth without checking to see if Ed's following.
Ed follows.
At first he's hard pressed just to keep up - the pace Izzy sets isn't exactly geared toward idle conversation - but as the jungle gets darker and thicker and they have to pick their way around overgrown vegetation Ed manages to gather a breath.
"So," he says finally, businesslike himself. "Thanks for getting us through that storm."
Izzy just grunts, looks around; he's frowning. "I don't recognise any of these - this place seems off."
Ed waves that away. "Iz. Listen, will you? I don't think Stede's - I don't think the crew would have managed something that advanced six months ago. Definitely not anything that came on so suddenly."
"Good," Izzy says, abruptly. "Been trying to get them up to speed. Was a good test." He tilts his chin up, squints at the angle of the sun. "The fucking - none of the geography of this place makes any fucking sense, Edward." He sighs, sounding tired. "Why didn't you just insist Bonnet come with you? I don't have time to be fucking around on weird fucking islands. Water should be this way." He begins to walk away.
"He wanted me to talk to you," Ed says, biting down on the urge to snap back, grabbing at the blackness in his chest to keep his temper in check. "Since you've been so–"
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Izzy cuts him off. "He's about as subtle as a club to the fucking skull. Let me guess, he's pissed off I'm not playing nice."
"Can you blame him," Ed says, pointed. "You are being kind of an arsehole."
The look Izzy throws over his shoulder is so tired Ed's frustration falters. This shell, detachment and disdain both, that Izzy's drawn around himself - he'd begun to build it before leaving the ship, and returned alongside Stede with it firmly in place. If Ed's being honest he recognises it - he's seen it before, exactly once, but he doesn't like to think about that.
Instead of acknowledging it he's been waiting, expecting it to fade like last time; it's been hardening instead, becoming near impervious. It's left them adrift, untethered in a way Ed should have foreseen; by the time he'd recovered from Stede's return, from the tumultuous storm of emotion that had tossed him around in, he'd lost his opportunity to interrupt Izzy's withdrawal.
"Is that so," Izzy says, deadpan. "And yet his fucking crew are finally doing their jobs properly, aren't they?"
"Iz," Edward says, but Izzy just turns around and continues on, and Ed has to work to keep up with him - the knee's never really kind to him over uneven terrain, not when it's sandy. He's concentrating, avoiding doing something fucking stupid like tripping or stepping on a snake, so he nearly runs directly into Izzy's back when the other man stops and makes a suspicious noise.
"Stream," he says, and points at it. Odd, Edward thinks, that they hadn't heard it earlier; something about the vegetation must have deadened the sound.
They cross to it together; it's running, and it's clear, and when they crouch down in unison and both make the same cut-off noise of strain, Ed catches the ghost of a smile on Izzy's face. It's gone almost instantly as he squints at the water, but Ed can't help feeling the smallest bit cheered. There's hope, then. Edward lets that buoy him out of the snappish mood, pull him towards something - easier.
"Not sure about it," Izzy says. "Smells all right, but–"
"We're not gonna get laid low by water," Ed says, and scoops up a handful of it. Izzy rolls his eyes but does the same, clearly not willing to let him risk it by himself, so there's a beautiful moment of synchronisation when they both spit it out again, swearing.
"Salt," Izzy says, grimly. "Still tidal, then." He stands up, and peers upstream; the rivulet wends its way through the trees, but there doesn't look to be much of an incline that might take them to a fresh source. "Might be a bit of a bust, boss."
"Well, hey," Ed says, something catching his eye. He goes to rise; lifts his hand without thinking, and Izzy hauls him to his feet, also unthinking. Ed can't remember the last time Izzy touched him unbidden, and - determined not to make an issue of it - he points. "Look like fruit to you?"
"God, no," Izzy says. "There's no fresh water, we're not eating - Ed," because Edward is crossing to the plant that's drawn his attention, covered over with some sort of bulbous golden fruit. "Ed, anything that grows where the groundwater tastes of salt is going to be inedible."
"C'mon," Ed says - plucks a cluster of the things from the vine, which he can see now has twined its way around a tree. "Look, they look like fancy grapes–"
"Ed–"
"Go on," Ed says, and proffers the fruit. "Have a grape."
Izzy stares at him, flatly; Ed is about to give up and toss the things, but then he sighs, and reaches out. Plucks a grape. It's barely a concession, but it's enough to keep Ed - hopeful.
"If it does taste of salt," he says, "you owe me a silver real."
"Haven't got any coins." Ed keeps his tone solemn, but winks; there's that hint of a smile again as Izzy bites into the fruit, and - well, it's nearly as good as a conversation, isn't it. "I'll let you call Stede a twat without interfering, though, how's that."
"How many more grapes can I have," Izzy deadpans again, and then screws up his face. "Ugh, it does taste of salt." He spits, tosses the remaining fruit into the underbrush. "Told you it was a bust, boss."
"Pretty, though, isn't it?" Ed holds the cluster of grapes up to the light. They're almost translucent, pearlescent, a yellow-gold colour he's never seen before. "That'll keep Stede happy, at least."
"Sure," Izzy says. "Anything for your fucking co-Captain."
"Iz–"
"Come on. Let's get back to the ship. Maybe some of the others have had more luck."
"Fucksake, Iz," Ed says, sharply, the floating hopefulness starting to evaporate. He takes a deep breath, grits his teeth and plunges into the fucking conversation. "What do you want me to do? What do I say to fix - whatever's got you," he waves a hand, "like this?"
"You can't," Izzy tells him bluntly, and starts back in the direction they came from.
Jesus Christ. Ed would have preferred Izzy hit him. "Is this because of Stede?"
"Surprisingly," Izzy says, "no."
A fresh rush of anger, then. He can hear it in his own voice. "Come on, man, I'm trying to–" He cuts himself off. Breathes. "Look, I know I - the Kraken. It wasn't a good... time. For anyone. But I'm trying, aren't I."
Izzy doesn't stop moving, although he does slow. "Yeah." It's a rasp. "Of course you are."
"Well then. Is that not enough? What else can I– what's the fucking problem?"
Izzy stops, then. Ducks his head to look at the ground, mumbles something. And then looks back at Ed. "Edward," he says. "Do you really think–" and stops.
"Think what, Iz," Edward says - begs, really, although he flinches to hear the sound of it in his voice. "C'mon, man, if you're so unhappy why are you still here?"
"Edward," Izzy says again, heavily. "That's the whole - I can't go. You won't let me."
"That's bullshit, of course you fucking can." Ed's a little shocked by how bitter he sounds. "You didn't ask my permission to go get Stede. And before that, after the– the duel, and–"
"Fuck," Izzy mutters. "You're really going to do this, are you?" He clears his throat. "I had an out, once, remember? I did ask. You didn't let me."
Ed has avoided thinking about that, in the intervening decades. "I– yeah, but that was– it was different."
"All right, then, Edward." Izzy turns to face him, crosses his arms. "When we get back to the ship, you're going to tell everyone that I'm going ashore at the next port. You have to let me go, or I can't go at all. Can you do that?"
"Izzy." His voice sounds strange to his own ears; alien. "Iz, you can't – don't say that."
A sigh. "Yeah, that's what I thought."
"You'd come back. Right? You would. You did before. With Stede. You'd have to come back."
"Edward–"
"Iz, you know I- I need…" but he trails off when he realises Izzy isn't looking at him.
His eyes are unfocused, concentrating on something else. Izzy frowns, looks unsettled; lifts a hand to touch his face. It comes away wet, and that's when Edward sees the slow ooze of blood leaking from his nose.
"Shit," Izzy remarks. And then his eyes roll back in his head, and he collapses.
Getting back to the Revenge is a bit of a blur. Ed thinks at some point one of the others must have heard him yelling, because he'd had help, getting back down across the beach. The cacophony ashore must have carried over the water; by the time they’d managed to row back to the ship there’d been a pair of anxious faces peering over the rail at them. Ed had been fully prepared to follow Roach down to the galley and hover, but Stede had grabbed at his shoulder, murmured something about space.
(Ed’s been giving nothing but space.)
He’d let himself be drawn away, back to the Captain’s cabin, where they now both are. Ed pacing, staring at the grapes he’d somehow managed to keep ahold of through all the panic. Stede is flipping through some sort of almanac - encyclopaedia - looking for them, but so far there’s nothing that looks quite right.
“Tell me again what happened,” Stede says abruptly, after another fruitless flip through the book.
Ed can’t help the little frustrated sound that slips out. “He ate a grape. He started bleeding from the fucking nose. He fainted.”
“Why did you–“
“I don’t know, Stede!”
It’s snappish; more than he means it to be, but–
(When Stede had come back - well. Ed had sort of hoped they’d got it out of the way. They’d had a proper row - yelled a bunch, cried a bit, yelled some more. It had felt right, at the time - lancing a boil, draining poison - and Ed had figured they’d wobble their way back onto the right course afterward. For the most part they have, but sometimes - sometimes, Ed catches Stede watching him. Scrutinising him. Almost like he’s searching for weaknesses, chinks in the armour; little details to tuck away in case he needs them. And Ed - Ed can feel the difference between before and now, and most of the time he can ignore it, paper over it; but when Stede looks at him like that Ed can’t help being defensive. Particularly about Izzy. Particularly since–)
“Right,” Stede says, and snaps the book shut, decisive. “We just have to wait, then.”
Ed mutters a curse, scrubs his hands over his face. “Sorry.”
Stede's face twists; pissy. “I accept your apology.” And hell if that doesn’t make Ed regret apologising in the first place. It'd be smarter to let it go, but he's too off-kilter to be smart.
“Sure you’re not pleased about this?”
Stede’s eyes go wide. “What do you–“
“You two have been at eachother’s throats for months,” Ed says. “Insisted he follow me out to the fucking island to have a conversation, what the fuck ever. Tried that, didn't I? And you know something, he was an unpleasant little bastard, same as always, but he said outright it wasn't about you. I asked and everything.“
"Edward–"
"'Course, he fucking passed out before I could get him to tell me what it–" he feels sick, saying the words out loud. "And who knows, now, what'll. What might."
“For god’s sake, Ed.” It’s Stede’s turn to snap. “I don’t like the man but I don’t want him to fucking die.“
There's voices, then. Raised. Clamouring. Loud enough to be heard where they are, and Ed looks at Stede for the briefest second before they both bolt for the door. Stede's a step ahead of him, the book still in hand, but he's gotten faster since he got back to the Revenge; faster and more nimble both, and Ed's knee is aching after all the traipsing through the jungle, so he's a good few metres behind by the time they both make it down to the source of the noise. The infirmary.
It takes Ed a second, when he skids to a stop in the open doorway, Stede a few feet in front of him. There's a few of the crew - Roach, Oluwande, Jim - arrayed around the room, and all of them have their hands up, placating, talking rapidly over the top of eachother, because Izzy–
–Izzy's out of the cot, backed up against the wall of the galley, gaze bouncing between the crew and now Stede, too. He's got one of Roach's knives in hand, an overhand grip Ed hasn't seen him use in decades, but he barely pays attention to any of it. Because Izzy looks–
–he's–
–almost unrecognisably young.
Ed dimly remembers Izzy looking like this - when they'd met, decades ago, both green and new and desperate to prove themselves. Ed's eyes are drawn to his cheek; the tattoo is gone, the sight of bare skin like a stinging saltwater slap to the face. He's smaller, still wiry but not quite as solid. And he doesn't have any of the control he ordinarily has over his expression; he looks terrified, pinched and taut, like someone not quite properly awoken from a nightmare, who hasn't realised yet where he is.
"What the fuck is going on," Izzy spits, and even his voice is different; less of a rasp to it, lighter, the weight of years stripped away. "Who the fuck are you," he adds, the last addressed to Stede, face twisting as he takes in the unmistakably tailored quality of Stede's clothing. It's not as markedly different as it used to be, not quite as out of place as the gentleman's getup, but it's still notable.
"That's, uh," Oluwande says. "That's the c–"
"This is my ship," Stede cuts in; he can be authoritative when he wants to be. "So I'll thank you to put the knife down and stop threatening my crew, Israel."
He startles at the use of his name, but doesn't push back on it. The knife dips, just a little. "Captain? I don't - I don't remember–"
"I've been trying to tell you," Roach says, "we're not going to hurt you," and Olu and Jim make noises, agreement, and the knife dips a little more; Izzy scans the room again, before his shoulders slump.
"Fuck," he says, heavily. "Sir, I'm - I'm so sorry," this last directed to Stede, "it's only I - I don't recognise any of this, sir, any of you, and I didn't mean to – I must have hit my head, that can happen sometimes, or so I've heard, that you hit your head and forget things, but I– please forgive me, Captain, sir." His eyes fall shut as the babbling runs out - the most words any of them have had out of Izzy in months that weren't barked instructions or acknowledgments of orders, Ed thinks.
"That's… that's all right," Stede says. It's faint. Now that the immediate risk has passed, he's clearly just as uncomfortable with the situation as Izzy. "Seems like - a terrible thing, losing one's memories - why don't you just lie down again, then, let Roach here check your head, and we'll - we'll just get out of the way." His hand behind his back, out of Izzy's line of sight, makes a frantic flapping gesture Ed interprets as retreat, dear god, let's get out of here.
Ed doesn't have to be told twice, because there's a shaky little bubble he recognises as panicked levity making its way up through his belly; he holds onto it for as long as he can, gets up to the main deck without letting it loose, but when they're up in the fresh air out of immediate earshot and the breeze is back stirring his hair, it bursts out of him. He can hear the edge to it - it's too sharp, too loud, but he can't keep ahold of it. An uncontrollable stream of stuttery laughter tears out of his mouth.
"...Ed?" Stede sounds uncertain, and a tentative hand touches Ed's back, between his shoulderblades. "What–"
"Captain," Ed says, his voice shaking, repressed adrenaline, and then has to yank in a breath as the laughter starts again, louder this time. "He called you captain."
Jim and Oluwande have followed them up; and because no-one on board this fucking ship can keep their mouths shut about anything, an update about the situation is obviously making its way through the crew. They're all starting to hover, watching Stede and Ed nervously from their places around the deck. Ed straightens up, tries to get himself under control again, but the stunned look on Stede's face makes him choke on a fresh burst of nervous mirth. "Sir! He said sir!"
"You don't seem– worried."
"Fuck," Ed says; the humour wobbles, a knife edge; he can feel cold terror there, a dark pool threatening to close in over his head. He forces it back, frantic, desperately seizes the part of him that finds the situation amusing. "C'mon. You have to admit it's a bit funny."
"It seems - quite unusual," Stede says, desperately. "He didn't even - there weren't even any expletives directed at me."
"Sounds like a curse, if you ask me, Captains," and that's Buttons, materialising at Stede's side with a solemn look on his face.
"Yeah, you reckon?" Ed hasn't seen anything so overtly supernatural in years, but he has the same healthy respect for the forces of the unknown as anyone else on the fucking ocean. He's seen his fair share of curses, though, and this one seems pretty mild, for the most part; a bit of a shot at reliving one's youth and getting given shit by your crewmates seems a pretty light price to pay.
And Izzy doesn't remember anything, Ed realises, suddenly. Which means he's not pissed off at Ed anymore.
"Shit." Ed feels his thoughts begin to race. "Couldn't've happened to a nicer bloke, could it? Just think, Stede." He reaches out, claps Stede on the shoulder. "Izzy as a fuckin - god, he looks about twenty. He'll be a bit more pleasant for a while, isn't that what you were after? Might make him nicer when it's all over, too, if he gets a holiday from his sore knees for a bit."
"You're taking this rather in stride," Stede says, eyes wild. "Ought'n't we be more worried about a fucking curse–"
"This sort of thing's not unheard of, sir," Buttons breaks in, matter-of-fact. "All sorts of things happen at sea. I once sailed with a man who couldn't set foot on land. Would've dropped dead instantly the second his feet touched solid earth."
"You knew Sea-bound Bob?" Ed asks, with interest, and Buttons nods.
"I did, sir."
"Goodness." Stede can't help sounding interested too. "What happened to him, did the curse get lifted?"
"No. He got shot," Buttons says, blithe. "Bit of an arsehole, truth be told."
"Well." Stede looks awkward. "I don't want anyone shot."
"Cursed," Ed repeats, aware that he's too loud, too energetic about it, but unable to keep it underneath his skin. "Oh, fuck, Izzy cursed. Poor bastard."
"We should probably try to determine how to break it, if it's a curse." Stede looks disturbed, and for a brief second Ed is irritated, the unresolved argument from earlier firing up his temper. Besides, Stede's constantly chasing after this sort of shit, telling stories about it; he should be more excited about getting a stab at the real deal.
It makes him dig in his heels, stubborn. "Are you kidding? Nah, we're gonna have some fun first." Ed raises his voice, looks around at the gathered crew. "Hey, everyone, gather 'round. Get in close, c'mon, I'm not going to yell it."
There's a few exchanged glances but the assembled crew make their way in close, a little knot of them all drawn together around the mainmast. The assembled faces are marked by consternation, and Ed takes a deep breath, strangles down the pulse of his own anxious heart, stifles the parts of him which are frightened.
It's going, he tells himself, to be perfectly fine.
"Look," he begins, "long story short - something ashore," he jerks his thumb at the island behind him, "one of the fruits or something, they've left Izzy cursed. Young as he was when I met him, no memory of anything, you know. And obviously we're gonna try to fix it, but in the meantime there's no reason we can't have a bit of fun with it, right?" Saying it out loud helps; laid out like that, Ed thinks, it all makes perfect sense. And it helps, that there's a general murmur of agreement. Some more exchanged looks. "If nothing else," he continues, "it's a good chance to practice some fuckery."
That gets them. A couple of smiles, and the mood shifts, from apprehensive to anticipatory. Ed grins, and gets some grins back, and the anxiety properly fades. The vague sense of amusement remains, though; he clings to it, to the relief of it. It feels so good to fucking laugh about something.
"Right," he confirms. "So Stede's the captain, yeah? I'm first mate. Obviously. It'll be fun. Yeah?"
A rumble of assent, until Frenchie pipes up with "But… the curse, Captain. Uh, First Mate, sir."
"What about it," Ed says, impatient.
"What if it's catching?"
Another rumble. Less assent, this time. But Buttons, with the same straightforward no-nonsense manner Ed's come to expect, says "Then we're all cursed already," and the next silence that falls is the thoughtful sort.
"Look," Ed says. "You've all noticed he's been - uptight, since - well, he's been uptight lately." He knows they have. It's been difficult to miss. "It might help, you know. Loosen him up a bit." As soon as the thought occurs he clings to it. "Could be the best thing to happen to him in ages. We may as well enjoy it. One of you let Roach know, can you?"
He leaves it with them to figure out the details. The crew fall to it, because if there's anything that motivates this weird little gang of Stede's, it's an opportunity to engage in some nonsensical drama. Stede himself is watching Ed again, contemplative, and when he raises his eyebrows - questioning - there's a hand extended, a pat on his shoulder.
"Are you all right?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" Ed asks, rhetorical. It doesn't feel forced, but Stede looks concerned anyway, and Ed breathes through the urge to restart the argument; lets it fade.
"Well. We did start to - have a little disagreement, before–"
"Don't worry about it," Ed says. "Got a bit stressed. Didn't mean it."
"That's understandable." Stede's voice is very small.
Ed sighs. "It's just, I wanted you two to get on, you know? Kind of a bummer sailing around with you both bitching eachother out all the time."
"Edward." Stede wrings his hands - a tell he's worked on breaking. Not there yet. "There's something - well. Izzy himself ought to talk to you."
"Right," Ed cuts that off, abrupt. "I can imagine. We started to - well. started to talk, but got interrupted."
Stede looks uncertain. "You didn't mention that before."
"Thought he was poisoned, didn't I? Kind of went out of my head. It's all right. We'll talk again. But not - you know. Have to wait." He feels a hint of a smile steal over his face. "In the meantime maybe now you'll end up friends? He's got less of a reason to dislike you like this."
Stede begins to frown, but then a contemplative look settles onto his face. It takes everything Ed has not to reach out, then, smooth the lines on Stede's forehead with his thumb; and then he remembers he can, so he does, and Stede smiles at him, and it really does seem like maybe things will work out all right. "Of course," Stede says, and huffs a small laugh. "If nothing else I imagine I can expect to be called a twat less often."
As the sun sets, the weird lingering stormlight turns the sky brilliant and beautiful; there's a casually festive sort of atmosphere out on deck when Izzy finally emerges. He trails Roach uncertainly, furtively, as the former tours around deck and reintroduces him to everyone - not exactly protocol, that, he probably should have come to Stede and Ed first, but Ed's hardly about to complain of the opportunity to watch him a bit more.
He calls himself Israel, pointedly, repeatedly; it's how they were introduced, too, Ed remembers, but he's been Izzy for so long now that it's hard to recall when it changed. Ed has the vague sense that the nickname came from him, or Jack, maybe; it'd sounded so formal, Israel, shouted out from one end of the yard to another, like they were in boarding school, not on a bloody pirate ship.
Seeing him stick to Israel now makes Ed wonder how much he resisted Izzy back then. Ed doesn't remember, though seeing Izzy - Israel - like this is starting to dredge up memories long since gone faded and irrelevant. He's got the same intense attentiveness, but he's not as good at hiding it as his usual self; assuming a casual posture while tracking everything he sees. The ramrod-straight line of his back, and the way he keeps feeling for a sword that isn't there - good move, Roach - he's on edge. More than that - vigilant, Ed thinks.
And he keeps darting looks at Stede.
Even after they're introduced - reintroduced. Even once the rest of the crew have assembled themselves on deck to mend sails - a task Izzy had left them with, funnily enough - and he's slotted himself in alongside Roach, listening to the ebb and flow of conversation, his gaze keeps returning to Stede. Trying to parse him, Ed thinks, and can't help but be a little bit amused; the real Izzy, his Izzy, would be horrified to think of himself so distracted and fascinated by Stede fucking Bonnet.
Behind him, he hears Stede approach Buttons. Ed leans against the rail on the quarterdeck, half his attention on the crew, and half on the conversation behind him.
"How much experience do you have with curses," Stede asks. "Only I'd written this kind of thing off as superstition."
A grunt. "The sort of thing someone new to sea might think," Buttons says, and Ed can hear the way Stede begins to bristle, offended, but he continues. "It's not common, of course, sir. Not these days. The better our maps and charts become, the less mystery remains in the world, 'course. This sort of thing, curses and the like, it all comes from mystery, from forces beyond our ken."
"Right," Stede says. "And so - if we were to try to ken it - "
"It's a new moon," Buttons says. "S'the first thing that occurs to me, sir. It may well simply wear off by the full moon, if it's a minor curse. One of the common or garden hexes."
"Minor," Stede repeats.
"If there isn't a time limit on it," Buttons continues, "there'll be a countercurse, which we'll have to investigate."
"Surely there's a way to tell."
"I could try eating the fruit myself, of course, Captain, but–"
"Oh god no, don't do that," Stede says hastily. "One of you's quite enough. That's all right, Buttons, thank you. We'll just give it the two weeks then, see how things go. Hopefully he just wakes up one morning his ordinary miserable self."
Ed can't help but hope that's not what happens, but he's hardly going to tell Stede that.
In the morning the island is gone.