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[oom] Bristol 1757
Aug. 8th, 2012 07:24 pmThree years have passed since he lost his leg. Three long years since Flint's betrayal. Three years that another man might take as a gift from God, but not John Silver. He was only biding his time until God saw fit to return what was rightly his. Flint's former quartermaster had reinvented himself, establishing himself as a cook and innkeeper at the Spyglass, a mostly reputable establishment that catered to officers and crew alike. His food was good, his beds were clean, and the throats that were slit, well, it would be safe to say that none go looking for them as truly want to find the truth. Besides, in Bristol town, there is no better keeper of secrets than gold.
Gold.
When he sleeps, he dreams not of warm waters and beautiful blue skies. He does not dream of his wife or her coffee hued skin, soft as velvet, or the sweet lilt of her island tones. He does not even dream of captaining his own ship. No, he dreams of that hold, piled to the rafters with coin and jewels, gems and pearls. He dreams of an ocean of gold, and he, a man with two legs, swimming in it. He dreams of carriages and fine manor houses, and a pew with his name on it, right down in front, where all the action happens. He dreams of being a grand lord, bedecked in velvet and lace, and all the finery that goes with.
John Silver counted every coin, and marked it duly in the Captain's ledger. He was an honest man, as honest as any ever dared to serve and still keep his head on his shoulders. He was true to his captain, and his sword arm never tired. He was as loyal as the moon to the sun, and he was blown down into that jolly boat, blown down by the cannon ball that took his leg.
He dreams of gold, even as he remembers the feel of his own blade slicing into the meat of his thigh, separating the weak from the strong. He remembers the way his skull split from fever and rum, and the brutal sun beating down on them as they drifted, waiting for rescue. He dreams of gold, even as he remembers the cruel laugh of Captain Flint.
When he wakes, he lies in his bed, Alibe's head against his shoulder, and he stares at the ceiling, counting the ways he's going to repay that favour. He stands, and washes himself, like the civilised man he is. He eyes his face in the mirror, straightens his waistcoat and wipes his mouth. The bird takes her place on his shoulder, just as every other day, his constant companion. He wonders if she remembers, too. Two hundred years old, and still just as beautiful as if she were made new. Her laughter reminds him of the crew, reminds him of those days of plenty, before the fall.
Her laughter rings out, the voice of a ghost, and he recalls the look in Captain Flint's eye as he lit the fuse.
Today might be the day when he hears word of that old man and his map. All roads lead to Bristol, and all his men stay close, knowing that the day is coming when the gold will be theirs again.
Gold.
When he sleeps, he dreams not of warm waters and beautiful blue skies. He does not dream of his wife or her coffee hued skin, soft as velvet, or the sweet lilt of her island tones. He does not even dream of captaining his own ship. No, he dreams of that hold, piled to the rafters with coin and jewels, gems and pearls. He dreams of an ocean of gold, and he, a man with two legs, swimming in it. He dreams of carriages and fine manor houses, and a pew with his name on it, right down in front, where all the action happens. He dreams of being a grand lord, bedecked in velvet and lace, and all the finery that goes with.
John Silver counted every coin, and marked it duly in the Captain's ledger. He was an honest man, as honest as any ever dared to serve and still keep his head on his shoulders. He was true to his captain, and his sword arm never tired. He was as loyal as the moon to the sun, and he was blown down into that jolly boat, blown down by the cannon ball that took his leg.
He dreams of gold, even as he remembers the feel of his own blade slicing into the meat of his thigh, separating the weak from the strong. He remembers the way his skull split from fever and rum, and the brutal sun beating down on them as they drifted, waiting for rescue. He dreams of gold, even as he remembers the cruel laugh of Captain Flint.
When he wakes, he lies in his bed, Alibe's head against his shoulder, and he stares at the ceiling, counting the ways he's going to repay that favour. He stands, and washes himself, like the civilised man he is. He eyes his face in the mirror, straightens his waistcoat and wipes his mouth. The bird takes her place on his shoulder, just as every other day, his constant companion. He wonders if she remembers, too. Two hundred years old, and still just as beautiful as if she were made new. Her laughter reminds him of the crew, reminds him of those days of plenty, before the fall.
Her laughter rings out, the voice of a ghost, and he recalls the look in Captain Flint's eye as he lit the fuse.
Today might be the day when he hears word of that old man and his map. All roads lead to Bristol, and all his men stay close, knowing that the day is coming when the gold will be theirs again.
