Archive of Our Own ^beta

Salt on his lips, the roll of ship under his knees: he wouldn’t have it end any other way. Ten-year-old Edward Munson stared bloody-black-death at the man above him. The rope sawed at his wrists. He spat on the deck.

The man, the pirate, bent down, crouching so Ed could smell his breath. “We can drop you off at the next port, lad.”

He wasn’t expecting that. He was anticipating the buccaneer dagger-ing his heart; or his throat, whatever would be easiest, he guessed. Instead, he was being given a pat on the cheek. Treated like a goddam child.

Eddie spat again. Maybe they hadn’t seen the first time.

“Alright, boy?”

“Just kill me,” he dared them.

“Ah, no.” the man said.

“You’re pirates, you killed me friends, you killed me crew-mates. A canon took out Jimmy’s leg, you, you feckin’ rascals.”

“Ooh, language. Rascals is a bit steep.”

“Cap’n?” A tall woman (really? a woman?) running lithe across the boards, heeled boots clacking. “Scullery boy’s bleeding, and doc got did-in this round.”

Munson rolling on the deck, figuring if they weren’t going to hang him from the foremast, or shoot his jellied brains out, he could at least escape. Make a swim for it? Drown? Something creative. “Untie me!” he yodelled.

The Captain was halfway gone, but he shouted, pulling fabric (bandages?) from his long-coat pocket. “Give me a reason, lad!” not really paying attention.

Well, Ed would get him, make him listen. Cheek against the boards, “I ‘prenticed with a saw-bones,” he shrieked.

———————————————————————

Holding a hot knife over the fellow boy’s chest. He knew enough to sterilize the tool. Edward Munson had not apprenticed under a doctor. He had worked for a resurrection-man (stealing corpses from graveyard for doctors). Same thing. He thought. But, it was a little worrisome with the Captain glowering at him.

It was more worrisome looking at the pretty boy underneath his knee; long fingers cupping the blood seeping from his shoulder, as if he was doing a good job keeping it in.

Holding the scullery lad down, the Captain stuffed fabric in his mouth to bite. “You done this before?” skeptical of Ed.

Munson scowled. “Got anyone who has?”

Finally, the pirate matched his frown. Now they were enemies together.

Eddie wheedled the knife into the wound. The pretty boy thrashed, moaning gibberish. Pushing down his chest, Ed’s palm hard against ribs; and dug, dug for the bullet. He was doing it badly, the wound filling with blood, hard to see. The knife wasn’t working, he couldn’t feel what he was doing.

This might leave an infection, but it wouldn’t matter if the lad bled out first. Eddie pinched in his fingers, the meat wet and almost suctioning him. Found a hard, sharp bit. Dug more, grimacing, hating it, lifting more shrapnel. He worked until he was certain it was gone.

“Spirits?” he asked, sweating.

The pirate handed over the bottle, his face contorted. Worry?

Eddie took a swig. Fuck them. Fuck them all. Then poured a generous splash on the wound. The boy sputtered and drooled and passed out. Good. He didn’t need to be awake for all this pain. Even if he was a privateer.

The Captain took over bandaging. “Harrington lives, you can stay.”

Ed spat third time. Third time’s the charm. Hadn’t the man understood? He hated these people. He wasn’t staying.

———————————————————————

Salt on his lips; wind in his hair, long, grown out. Grown up. Earring for fun.

A month prior they had given Wayne a proper burial. It had taken young Eddie a full calendar before he learned the buccaneer’s Christian name (everyone calling him Cap’n), and he had thought Wayne ridiculous. A farmer’s name for a pirate.

Wayne had slipped under the waves soft, like sleeping. Tied with a weight so he wouldn’t bloat and bob back up. Gold coins in his pocket, one from each of the crew.

———————————————————————

Captain Munson (almost as ridiculous sounding as Wayne) tapping his foot in front of the young boy. The lad recently captured, and squirming on the deck. It was cold, sky grey, flakes hitting the rail and melting. If the vessel went to port, it might be close to Krampusnacht.

The boy squirmed.

“We can drop you at the next landing.”

He thrashed and thrashed, Eddie tsked at the redness around his wrists. “It’ll turn into a welt. Don’t want that.”

“Cap’n?” his first mate.

“Harrington?” in the same tone. They’d given to a light mocking when together. Day or night.

Eddie watched him clocking the lad. “We can drop him to port?”

“I offered. He’d rather roll around.”

Steven Harrington raised his eyes to the heavens, bending to untie the ropes. Gentle, voice low, to the kid, “We can use a new scullery boy. If it’s not to your liking, you go to the nearest drop, no questions asked.”

Eddie blamed him later, for letting the boy stay.

———————————————————————

Another sailor-burial. This time the bundle small. One gold from Munson and Harrington. They don’t let the rest of the crew contribute. Eddie holding the wrapped child in his arms, for a moment pretending he’s asleep: sleeping and covered to be warm. But then he must drop the corpse over the side, and he can’t pretend anymore.