Crushed

Edward Teach sat behind the creaking mahogany desk. He'd sunken backwards into the soft velvet cushions at some point last night and now he refused to move. He scowled at the windows and the rain. Seawater crashed against the ship and he feared the glass would shatter around him. Edward ran a hand over his itchy, stubbled chin and stuck the pipe back in between his teeth. Fuck all of it. The constant fucking pattering of the rain, and the sound of it on the windows was about to drive him mad with anger and resentment. The sea didn't feel like it used to, the ship itself seemed much darker and more hollow. The hallways and the decks were no longer haunted by frilly shirts and the smell of lavender soap.

Edward moved his elbow back to the arm of the high backed chair and blew rings of gray smoke across the desk. He'd been doing a fair bit of thinking while he sat there, nestled in the fancy fucking cushions. Edward placed his bad leg on the desk and grumbled. The knee was worse than ever and he figured it had to be the weather. The cold winds and the shifting seas affected his muscles and increased the aching about to drive him out of his damn mind.

The Captain leaned his head back against the wood and stared at the two chandeliers swaying with the ship. It truly was fucking overkill. The gentle creaking was drowned out by the rolling thunder. He could live with the thunder and the rain, it was the waves that made him uneasy. He'd learned fairly quickly to respect both the sea and her anger and he found it deeply unsettling that right now, all he wanted was for her to drown them all. He wanted the fucking ocean to pull them all under and into the depths. Ship. Crew. All of it.

He had been sitting here for hours. Days. Only moving when he needed to. He barely moved enough to retain some of the feeling in his leg when the cramps came. He moved to stir a ringed finger through the brandy and he moved to empty the pipe on top of the lone book on the desk. The heavy blanket of swirling smoke in the air hadn't only clouded his judgment, it also kept the crew away.

Lucius had come in during the small hours yesterday. When he'd opened the door he'd been consumed by a coughing-fit so severe Ed had wondered if he'd hurl his guts up all over the fancy persian rug before he even got a word out. The scribe had done like the rest of the crew and crawled below deck at the gathering storm on the pitch-black horizon. Ed had even admired them for it, mostly because they'd managed to sleep through the thundering gale.

Edward hadn't slept in days. He'd been walking around in circles until he got sick of it, then he'd sat until he hurt. He'd finally gotten over himself sometime last night and the book on the desk showed it.
Edward had flicked through it mostly to feel the pages. His thumb had stopped at the drawing Stede had shown him weeks ago. He'd shoved it back in the book and forgotten all about it. The hole from his dagger was still there. Edward had looked at it and scowled. There he'd been in all his grotesque glory. Nine guns, black eyes and a murderous glare. Edward had felt better once his dagger was thoroughly shoved through the face of his inked self. If that was what they thought he was, he would become so much worse.

The Captain was pulled away from his melancholy grumbling by the sound of his First Mate swearing at the roaring seas and howling like a fucking maniac. Storms were the one thing Izzy knew how to handle better than most, he'd once taken a ship through a hurricane in the Chinese seas without losing a single man. Edward knew what he'd find if he went to check. He'd find Israel Hands with his knuckles whitening around the handles, bracing himself against the white-topped waves threatening to tear him from the helm and throw him to the seas. He'd find him there, grinning like a fucking madman. The storms somehow improved his mood. It had to be the looming death- The not knowing. The feeling of not having as much control as he'd like. Edward had considered himself fearless for years. He had pretended for so long he'd truly believed it. It had been so easy to keep the lie up. To speak it with such adamance and nonchalance that his crew had believed it too. He'd reveled in it, he was fucking Blackbeard. He didn't feel fear, he inspired it.