A/N: Hiiiiā¦ so it's been a while. Can I tell you all a secret? I am not very happy with this story anymore. (And also I pick my nose all the time (my friend wrote this while reading through my chapter please ignore him lmao) I'm insecure about picking my nose(he came back)) Due to lack of planning in the first three chapters, I feel like I drew everything out too long and butchered the plot. So, if you can bear with me, we are going to go through a timeskip. I've written and erased 1,000 words and more repeatedly. I just can't find a way to start this with the time continuing from the 'we have snooping to do' comment.
I'm not giving up, because I love this fandom and I still love my OC bbs. This is the final chapter of the origin story. I'll be taking a mini-hiatus from starting the next book (like maybe a month?) to edit all these origin chapters. The next phase will be outlining the next part of the story: Babs (Barbossa), Evie, Thomas and Moira's journey to the Caribbean. I'm thinking it'll be around 10ish chapters, but it could very well end up being 20. I have a lot of major plot points planned out, so don't worry! If you really are here for this story, I can promise you that the next book is on its way.
IF YOU ARE MAD AT ME: I am actually working on a 4-7 chapter work that'll basically be little oneshots between Barbossa and Moira. Sav helped me come up with the idea of mixing the theme of different levels of 'touch' with Barbossa training her how to shoot, swing a sword and work on becoming a map-charter. So, if you want some piratey fluff and a bit of steam, that shall be released soon. 3 ALSO, I will likely be posting little one shots for the OCS in general. I am toying with the idea of doing a oneshot with the 'nightmare trope'. Hector wakes Moira up from a nightmare and we see how he 'comforts' her? Aye?
This chap has some Babs moments. Are we ready to see some more Babs (Barbossa)? Because I am.
PS: a tun is an actual unit of measurement for liquid products.
Chapter Eleven- Flight of a Broken Bird
The sea spoke the language of Moira's heart, unforgiving and uninhibited. The waves undulated and smashed against the wharf, the sea roiling with the harbinger of a storm. Brooding, heavy clouds smothered the crooked town of Falmouth, threatening to rip open and coat the earth in an icy hell. The wind, charged and thick with impending rain, carried the spray of the sea on its gust. The ocean was a cradle to man; it's waters gave life and mercy. It brought fish, exploration and bounty. Yet, beneath its waves was a hidden murkiness that never saw the light of the sun, where terrors like the Kraken roamed. Sailors would give tithings and prayers for safe passage despite the fear of the unfathomable depths. The waters were still on the surface and a tempest beneath. Moira silently promised herself to learn the ways of the ocean, which did not need to speak to drop men to their knees.
She sat in the window sill of her shared room at The Bleeding Rover, feet dangling out over the white-wash stone walls. She relished in the scent of the cold, briny waters on her skin and the way her newly cropped coiffure whipped around beneath her hat. Her soul reached for the water as it always had, drawing her to it now by the secret whispers of potential.
Her first week in Falmouth she spent resting while her body began the difficult process of stitching itself back together. The hoarseness in her voice did not seem to alleviate and Moira thought her throat would never fully heal. The rest of her seemed to make decent progress. Evelyn took on the strenuous task of cleaning the raised, angry wounds mottling her back and face regularly for her, staving off the possibility for infection. Moira had trouble facing Evelyn, knowing that she was the reason her mother met such a miserable end. Each time she would open her mouth, all that would come out was a string of useless apologies that fell on deaf ears. No amount of remorse could bring Charlotte back. No tears shed would ever be enough to knit together the hole in their hearts that Charlotte left. Moira knew it was her fault. Instead of filling the space with helpless words, they would sit in tense silence until her ministrations were finished.
The second week, Moira felt well enough to venture out of the room. The first time she asked for permission to leave, Thomas gave her a funny look and asked why she needed permission from him. She couldn't come up with an answer, other than that it had always been that way for her- answering to a man was her whole existence once. 'Before.' There was yet another point in her life that merited the term ' before', a time where she was naive and things were a little brighter.
It felt strange to make her own choices at first, but she quickly fell into a routine that sated her craving to explore. In the day, she'd navigate the streets of Falmouth as Oliver Ward, sometimes stopping to chat with peddlers who set up their wares in the street market. She made a point to visit at least one new shop or an unexplored area every day. Once the sun began to wane, Moira would stop at a shoddy, nameless tavern on the wharf to drink away her memories with cheap ale. At night, she'd either sit in the window of their room or sit on the docks and stare into the vastness of the sea, waiting for a glimpse of her future on the horizon.
Her fingers instinctively traced over the golden locket hanging around her neck. Alice gave it to her after finding it in Walter's room, only willing to part with it when Moira assured her she'd return the real child to her. Moira left with a promise to send a correspondence to her whenever they made port, to update her on their journey and her progress in finding Magnus' displaced son. Oliver rested heavy on her mind even more so when they found the papers that proved he was sold into slavery by his own father. Beneath every layer of Walter Magnus that Moira peeled back, lay another hidden sin too vile to be forgiven.
It felt like a piece of Oliver's mother stuck to her, fueling her with rage for the boy she never met. She felt her own pangs of sympathy and anger at the injustice, but ever since leaving the manor something rotten had grown within the pit of her, teeming with pleas for revenge. Moira swore she could hear Elsie's maddening whispers in the silent hours of night, when sleep did not come for her the way she wished it to.
She could hear the rustling of bags and the turning of pages behind her. Thomas busied himself with cataloging their supplies for the trip to the Caribbean, slouched on his cot with Evelyn's head in his lap. Evelyn spent much of her time sleeping or mourning the loss of her mother. She'd been rendered uncharacteristically quiet for their trip to Falmouth, only once shedding another bout of tears when Moira told her exactly what happened to Charlotte. Moira wondered why they followed through with leaving, but kept respectfully silent on the matter.
"It's freezin' in here, lass." Thomas mumbled, his baritone voice rumbling like gentle thunder in his chest.
Moira looked over her shoulder to see Thomas running his fingers through Evelyn's hair, who seemed to stir with shivers. The fact that he broke the silence between them with smatterings of conversation comforted her. Moira knew that Evelyn felt a deep-seated resentment for her, but Thomas kept them both steady and calm. Moira sighed softly, swung her legs into the room and stood. She pulled one shutter shut, pausing to take one last look at the ocean. In the distance, Moira spotted a familiar silhouette riding the swells of the tide toward the harbor. Her heart stuttered and clenched when she spotted the naval flag of a merchant schooner hoisted up the mast.
"They're here."
"What?"
"The ship, they're here. They're here." Moira slammed the shutter shut, latching it from the inside before turning to gather her coat and boots. She tugged the oversized frock coat on and began bouncing on one foot while she pulled on a boot.
Evelyn let out a hoarse groan, peeling her eyes open in the dimly lit room. "Can't you two ever shut up?"
Thomas offered her a sympathetic smile, rubbing the strands of cropped hair from her face. "The ship is here. Moira wants to- "
"I don't give a damn what she wants to do. Moira, if you go out there, I'm killing you myself."
"Why?"
"You already got one of us killed. You're really going to run head first into him again?"
"I-..." Moira trailed off, staring at the ground as Evelyn's words hit her. "I am not going to get close. He won't see me."
"Just like he didn't see you last time?" Evelyn snapped, her eyes full of unbridled grief. Her face did not betray her, her mouth a taut line and her brows arched in anger.
A pregnant pause settled between them.
"Why do you care whether I get caught or not?" Moira hissed, her hands clenched into fists. She stalked over to one of their bags, pulling out one of the four coin purses, her pistol and a thick envelope."I won't go near until I know he's left. You can kill me when I get back with no issue."
Evelyn pulled herself up, glaring daggers at Moira. "You'll get us all caught, you ninny!"
Thomas opened his mouth to intervene in the startings of a vicious argument, but Moira was out the door before anyone could say another word.
She hurried through town, one hand on her hat while she weaved around passerbys. The port-town came alive as darkness grew nearer, most out to while away the night drinking and gossiping. Her feet carried her swiftly down the path lined with tall, pale stone buildings set aglow by lantern light. Moira took a left up an inclined path, hopping over an abandoned crate with a hissing wince of pain resounding up her back. The worn, wooden dock stretched out in front of her, the schooner inching closer to its berth.
In the moment, nothing mattered more to her than the vessel in front of her, the beacon of hope she had been so desperately waiting for. Her heart felt hollow, like Evelyn scooped every bit of her out- but Moira would not let her words cripple her. She did not care how her body screamed to slow down as she padded down the steep hill. She wouldn't let Magnus' presence stop her from living one more second. She earned this future- this something more- through blood and pain. Nothing would settle her bones like watching the ship tuck into port. She found a spot on the wharf, obscured from view by a stack of crates and fish barrels, and simply watched.
The sailors sped through the process of settling the vessel, though Moira could tell by their movements they were tired. She chewed on her fingernails, lost in a bundle of frayed nerves and anticipation to step right onto that deck and put leagues between her and Cornwall. She could not wait to feel the smooth oak railing beneath her hands, nor climb to the crow's nest to watch the horizon. Perhaps on the ship, Moira wouldn't have to speak to Evelyn as much. She wouldn't have to see the condemnation in her eyes anymore.
The sky grumbled a thunderous greeting as the beast himself sauntered down the gangplank, black hair slicked back and devilish eyes half-lidded and weary. He wore the same dark redingote from the day he left her in the locked room. Her daydreams ceased as the reality of his presence came to crush her.
A chill worked up her spine, followed by an icy terror flooding her system. She staggered to a stand and pinned herself behind the crate, gathering in as much oxygen as she could. Her hands felt clammy, tingles crawled up her red-hot face and tears pricked her eyes for the first time since leaving the manor. Moira could hear the edge of violence from beneath his short, polite voice. She put her hands on her knees and focused on her breath, trying to slow the uneven tide that teetered on hyperventilation. Moira wiped the tears from her cheeks, anxiety and rage mixing into one. She took a deep breath in and blew it out of her mouth slowly, fighting off the ringing in her ears. With another soothing breath, Moira dared a peek around the corner, pulling the brim of her hat down to shroud her eyes. The sight of Magnus speaking with Captain Belroy nearly sent her into another whirlwind of panic. She traced her hand over the grip of the gun on her hip and took in a breath. Moira tucked back against the barrels and crates, pulling the gun from its holster. The sky ripped open above her, showering the wharf in icy sheaves of rain.
'It could be over.'
Shaky hands trailed to the pouch of munitions, digging for a single ball and a container of gunpowder. Tears blurred her vision while she poured the gunpowder into the barrel. She worked as quick as she could, holding the gun beneath her coat to avoid getting the powder wet.
'He can't see me. I could end him right now.'
The ball dropped on the wooden slats of the dock with a light pang and she scrambled to pick it up. She pushed it into the barrel and shoved in the starter rod, pulling it out once the ball went down. The ramrod followed and she let out a trembling breath through pursed lips.
'He deserves it.'
Moira stood and peered around the corner, watching Magnus flag down an evening carriage. She primed the pistol with the remaining powder. Blood pounded in her ears, a faint ringing crawling upward to a crescendo. Moira aimed from around the crate, pressure building in her chest like someone was slowly crushing her. A disjointed voice, one that was not her own echoed in the back of her head: 'Do it.'She pulled back the hammer, slipping the first try from the moisture atop the gun. He hurried toward the carriage, offering a sum to the driver. His mouth moved over mute words and she caught a glimpse of a smile from his profile. A smile he would die for. Memories of every moment under his boot, every second she spent walking a tightrope of fear for him drove her forward. Her sights were on him, her breath coming out as ragged wheezes. A single finger wrapped over the trigger.
'Kill him.' The voice whispered.
Her vision blurred into darkness at the edges. Magnus climbed in the carriage, staring blankly ahead of him. She could see his filthy, black soul peering out of eyes made of steel. She could feel his fingers digging into the tender skin of her throat, crushing her voice from her flesh. 'Kill him. This is it.'
The carriage driver slapped the reins against the white stallion's back, urging them forward.
She couldn't kill him.
The carriage surged forward.
Moira let out a frustrated growl, her stomach roiling and her body slick with cold sweat and rain. She stumbled toward the edge of the dock and dropped to all fours, retching into the ocean violently. Sitting back on her haunches, Moira wiped at her cheeks and her mouth. At that moment, she hated herself more than she hated Magnus. She felt pathetic, weak and purposeless. 'I had him. I had him right there.'
Why couldn't she kill him?
A wound far deeper than skin suppurated and decayed her heart. 'Why didn't I do it?'
Her body tremored with every step she took out of her hiding place. She pocketed the pistol, watching helplessly as the carriage reached the crest of the hill. Moira wiped away the tears on her face again and cursed under her breath.
"I've seen that look in a man's eyes afore." Heavy boots splashed against the dock towards her, but Moira could not peel her eyes away from the empty space she last saw Magnus. "It's the look o' a man who's had everythin' taken from 'im."
Moira scoffed and wrapped her arms around her soaked sleeves, swallowing hard to hold back more tears. Anxiety still strangled the words away from her, so she said nothing.
His half-lidded eyes gave her a once over, lingering on the covered wound on her cheek. He displayed no outward empathy, but a hint of a smirk danced over his mouth. "But it looks like ye have one thing left he couldn't take."
"What would that be?" Moira croaked, glaring up at him. The rain splattered off a bicorn resting on his head, dribbling water just in front of his face. "Yer sense o' vengeance." His eyes flit to the weapon at her hip.
Moira's eyes searched his- looking desperately for an answer. 'Why didn't I kill him?' She looked down, teeth chattering and clothes sticking to her skin. Unable to say what was riddling her mind, Moira elected to ask the next best thing: "Care to get me drunk?"
He gave her a hubristic grin this time, looking down at her with a hand on his hip."I suppose I be feelin' generous enough."
The tavern was small, with splitting wooden walls and creaking floorboards. A grimy, massive man stood at the bar on the right, spit-shining a few snifters. Hector grimaced beside her, all the while guiding her farther into the room. He picked the table farthest from the bar and motioned for Moira to sit before heading back for drinks. Moira slid onto the wooden stool, staring down at her unbound hands. She opened her fingers wide on the table, watching as the webbing stretch. Her hands felt like those of a stranger- itching for the blood of a man she'd hopefully never see again. 'Could I have killed him?' She rested her chin on the table and took in a deep, quaking breath, trying to pull herself together before Barbossa returned.
"I'd like two o' yer finest ale in pints ye haven't spit on yet."
Moira couldn't help the small smile forming on her lips at the sound of Hector's voice, grand and gravelly among the quiet droning of tired sailors. For a moment, she felt like life could be very simple. It felt like it could be smiling at the way a man talks, or falling in love with the burn of alcohol dribbling down the throat. Unfortunately, life was far more complicated than that.
Hector waltzed up with a pint in each hand. He set a drink in her sights and removed his wet hat, flicking the water off at the floor. Moira snatched up the drink with two hands, tipping it down and guzzling it all within seconds. A small relief from the heat of alcohol started in her belly and flooded all the way up to her face.
"Ye'll fit in just fine wit' the crew if ye can handle yer drink like that." Hector smirked, taking a long drink from his ale. He immediately slammed the glass down, his face twisting into a look of utter disgust as he swallowed hard. "That tastes like piss."
"You look like you just drank piss." Moira deadpanned, chewing on her lip. "It's not an ale you sip and enjoy. It's the type of ale you drink fast enough to only taste it once."
Hector shot her a vexed glare, setting his jaw to fight off his grin. After a moment's hesitation, he downed the rest and set the cup down with a self-satisfied sneer. He surveyed Moira and began twisting the end of his mustache in thought. "I have t' say, Ward. I be impressed. I didn' reckon a high-class brat such as yerself would have the wherewithal to follow through."
Moira dug her nails into her palms, blankly staring at the table. "I almost didn't."
"And do ye have the means t' fulfill me terms?"
Moira scoffed and dug into the inner pocket of her frock coat. 'Of course that would be the next thing he'd ask.' She pulled out the envelope and the coin purse, setting them both on the table. She shot a look of distrust his way, hands still on both of her tokens to freedom. "I'll give you some of it. The rest you can get tomorrow when we board."
"Ah, ye don't trust me?" His hardened blue orbs dance playfully over her form, lifting a brow with inquisition.
"I wouldn't trust a man like you in any circumstance." Moira regarded Barbossa warily while she slid a handful of coins toward him.
Hector slipped his hand over hers before Moira could retract and settled his razor-sharp cerulean eyes onto her. He leaned over the table, voice dropping low when he spoke: "I believe ye have no other choice but to trust a man like me. I can show ye how good o' hands ye're in, lass."
Moira turned red, her eyes widening at the implication. Clearing her throat, she snatched her hand back and clumsily fiddled with the envelope. She quickly retrieved his contract and held it up between two fingers. "You're entirely free of ties now." She set the paper on the center of the table, making a point to avoid his gaze.
Barbossa glanced down at the folded parchment; his greedy eyes dancing from contract to coin. He slipped it from the table and unfurled the page, running over each line. When finished, Hector tucked the paper into his coat and crossed his arms.
She could feel him watching her. Moira pulled both of her hands into her lap, flicking her eyes to the window beside her. If she were a different woman, in a different life, maybe his propositions would flatter her. While in some minute way they did, the majority of her felt uneasy at the implication. She would not be held to the whims of a man ever again, even if it meant denying all attempts to make her swoon. Her hands trembled in her lap as she tried to harness her anger to act as a shield for the emotions that left her feeling weak.
"Four people seekin' passage, was it?"
Moira squeezed her hands tightly, her brows knitting together. Sharp, vicious grief tugged at her heart, threatening to pluck the organ right out of her chest."Three. Only three." Her voice was winded, but otherwise monotone. Moira forced herself to meet his stare. "One of us didn't make it."
She watched the way his eyes narrowed, mulling over the morsel of information. He gave her a slight nod and gathered the pints. "Then I suspect ye'll be needin' a few more of these."
Moira pulled her coat tighter around her, ignoring the seething pain of her back, and stared after him in mild disbelief.
"Did the lord do that to ye?" His eyes were on the covered wound on her right cheek, resting below the scar from the first assault two years ago.
Moira gulped, her vision bleary and tilting. She stared sightlessly at the table before resting her head on it. Her body flushed with tingles despite the cool air and wet clothes. Drink left her feeling numb and considerably calmer. Her words came out quick and slurred: "My own stupidity did this to me."
Hector let out a quiet, knowing laugh, shaking his head at her words. "There will come a time in yer life that ye'll no longer judge yerself fer what others have done to ye."
"I doubt that'll be any time soon."
Barbossa fixed her with a stare and for a moment, she saw a man who had lived a hundred years worth of life in only thirty-three. Her eyes traced over the fine lines forming on his face, the knot of scars stretching over his eye and cheek. "I feel like you know more about self-blame than I do." she whispered, hardly realizing her unfiltered thoughts bled from her voice.
He grinned at her, a strange storm brewing behind his mirthful guise. "There's not much time to be wallowin' in yer self-pity 'n regrets. Ye'll not want to be givin' the crew that impression. Any sign o' weakness be likely t' get ye beaten or worse."
Moira nodded, turning her gaze back to the sea. "I suppose when we get on the ship, I'm going to need a teacher. I know nothing about living on a ship nor how to protect myself. Would you be willing to teach me?'
"I told ye, yer in good hands, lass." Barbossa's expression was somber, as if he understood her troubles and how they had affected her.
Moira smiled tightly, her eyes cautious and watching. The night crested above the half-empty tavern, the overwhelming downpour tapering off into a softer drizzle. She knew it was time to leave- time to rest for her final night on land. "Thank you for drinking with me, Mister Barbossa."
"Hector." He corrected, a sly look on his face as he lifted his pint. "And I'll be expectin' ye to pay fer me drink next time."
She nodded at him, slapping her hat back on her head and tugging her coat over her shoulders. "Without a doubt." Moira slipped off the stool, standing and glancing around the small tavern room. "I'll see you in the morning."
"Before dawn, Ward."
The H.M.S Serpentine bobbed beside the pier, the gangplank crowded by longshoremen hauling cargo onto the ship. Thomas weaved expertly through the men, Evelyn and Moira in tow. The two women were disguised as boys, with close-cropped hair and bound chests beneath men's clothing. Evelyn seemed right at home in the clothes, shoulders thrown back and her hands in the pockets of her crimson coat. She walked with an air of masculine confidence, the same swagger she watched the patrons of the Sloop Inn fall into with the prospect of drink and women in their future.
Moira hunched her shoulders, drowning in the loose fabric that hung from her frame. She kept her hat tipped down, attempting to shroud the mottled bruises rimming her blood-shot eyes and cheek. Moira tugged nervously at her neckerchief, glancing over Evelyn's shoulder. Her eyes traced up the foremast and mizzenmast, white sails stowed, awaiting the call of the first mate to put hands to the rigging. The sun had just peeked over the horizon, reaching for the heavy clouds crowding the sky. She kept moving forward, brushing past a scrawny man around her age who hurried after a portly man. Her eyes honed in on the deckhand, noting the greasy sandy-brown mop of hair settling in chunks over the nape of his neck. A vague familiarity drew her to the night at the inn, when Evelyn sat beside a balding, scraggly haired man and a wiry boy.
"What business do ye and yer kin have here, lad?" The bark of Hector's voice made Moira flinch. She turned her head to him, watching as Thomas and the sailing master exchanged words.
"Us three are 'ere to work, under contract o' Lord Magnus 'imself." Thomas growled, his chin jutting and arms crossed. He reached for his coat pocket, pulling out the same envelope Moira pulled out for the night before. Thomas handed it to Barbossa, who spared a glance at Captain Belroy sauntering around the deck. Evelyn snuck a peek at Moira, grimacing at her when their eyes met. The Blackwood girl still wasn't talking to her. Moira pulled at the neckerchief anxiously, averting her eyes to the ground.
Hector flicked his head in the direction of the working sailors on the deck. "Tuns be the first in the hold. The rest o' ye make ready to' weigh anchor and hoist the mizzen!" He strode toward the man with an impossibly large hat, shouldering past the deckhands. "Cap'n!"
Belroy snapped his head in the direction of Hector, still managing to look down at the sailing master despite his shorter height. "Master Barbossa, to wha' do I owe the pleasure o' ye botherin' me while we be gettin' ready to leave port?"
Hector pulled out the contracts, offering it to the captain. Belroy did not notice the way Hector's face twisted into heated disgust while he watched him read the script, but Moira noticed. He met her eyes briefly, a flash of a selfish sheen in his stare.
Moira watched as the Captain exchanged words with the sailing master, gesturing aggressively to the trio standing in wait. When Hector came back, he wouldn't take his gaze off her, even when he spoke directly to Thomas. "Welcome aboard, Bligh, Blackwood 'n Ward." He tore used his head to motion direction to Thomas and Evelyn. "Bligh and Blackwood, follow Master Ragetti." He sized her up as Thomas and Evelyn strode towards the man with thinning hair and his follower. "Ward, walk with me."
Moira sidled alongside him, nearly jogging to keep pace with him as he barked orders. He guided her to the bridge deck, stopping just at the helm. In a whirl of his coat, Hector turned on her, brows furrowed expectantly. Moira dug into her bag, pulling out the three coin purses.
"Only three?"
Moira narrowed her eyes, raising a brow and holding the money to her chest. "There's only three extra bodies on this ship, Hector."
Hector snatched the money bags from her, pocketing them quickly. "That wasn't our accord. Ye owe me."
A flame of indignation spurred within her belly, but Moira bit her lip hard to simmer down her retort. "What do you suggest I do to make up for the loss of money?" She spoke through gritted teeth, averting her eyes.
"If I have use of ye, ye'll answer to me call regardless of what I be askin' of ye." He snarled, grabbing the scruff of her coat. "You can start with scrubbing the deck, whelp!"
She toppled down the stairs when he let go, knocking her head on the main deck painfully. Moira sat up, rubbing the back of her head while deckhands shuffled past her. She glared up at Barbossa, who towered over her. Before he could spout off another insult or order, Moira scrambled to her feet, pulling her hat on her head and hurried off to find a mop and water.
Once they set sail, Moira took a moment to relish in the wind's embrace, one hand on her hat and another on the railing. Her eyes blew wide, struck into paralysis at the feeling of the ocean rocking beneath her feet. Something within her stirred, a desire to live and experience pricking at her insides. She had questions of her past left unanswered and miles of promise ahead of her. Moira was not a ward, she was not a boy, nor a sailor. Moira was a free woman, breathing in the salty air and watching her prison shrink in the distance. A wounded bird she may be, but Moira's wings were not clipped. She was learning to fly.
"The deck won't scrub itself, Ward!" Hector bellowed.