Anne's dress, her hair, the taste of her lips; even at that moment, in the hold of the Black Blood, he could picture them, feel them, as though he were in that moment.
He ached for Anne. His heart pulled at his core, begging for her embrace, for the touch of her lips pressed against his. He felt hollow without her near. How could he, even for a second, think of another woman's features as pleasing to his eyes?
"I don't mean to interrupt… whatever it is you're thinking about right now, but if you were going to refuse her, you could have let her down easy."
Edward came out of his mental anguish over his shortcomings to scoff. "I don't think easy is in Grace's vocabulary," Edward said, which Herbert laughed at and nodded. "Besides, I had a lot on my mind at the time."
"What happened?"
Edward scratched his head, debating whether to share with Herbert the most recent revelation, and the subtle implications that came with it.
"Ed, we're in this together, remember? We are brothers, after all, and I don't just mean because of our fake names."
Edward chuckled and then nodded. "You are right, brother." He readjusted himself on the box he was sitting on, thinking of how to go about telling Herbert. "The day we went on that island and fought those men, Grace was there to retrieve a necklace." Herbert looked confused but said nothing. "The necklace belonged to my mother. My father sent her there to retrieve it."
Herbert whistled low and long. "No wonder you weren't in the mood."
Edward clenched his teeth. "This is no time for jesting."
"Sorry, sorry," he replied swiftly. "So, your mother…"
"Dead," Edward replied. "When I was just a lad. I barely remember her, but she was a light in my father's life. I do know that. Whenever he would tell stories about her, his face would glow."
Edward's gaze dropped to the bottom of the deck of the dark hold. He wished that he had been able to remember her, to know her beyond the stories, to share in her laughter he had been told could put a smile on the sourest, to hear her voice that could quell the storm in the most raging of hearts.
"What was her name?"
Edward looked up at Herbert for a moment before he returned to his gloom. "Areia. Areia Thatch."
Herbert's brow rose, and he scratched his chin. "Is that Greek? I'm not much for languages."
"I'm not sure. My father wasn't forthcoming with my mother's family line. I think the closest he ever came was when he told me that my mother was never meant for this world, whatever that means."
Herbert nodded, and after a moment said, "He must have loved her."
"More than anything else in this world," Edward replied. "Maybe that's why after she died, he… he became Calico Jack."
"Having second thoughts?"
Edward looked up at Herbert. In his eyes, he couldn't see any emotion, except maybe pity. "No, it doesn't change anything. I still want to talk to him, ask him why, but if he wants me to kill him, then I'll give him what he wants. It's the only way to end this."
A sudden noise came from behind them—a box shifting and the unmistakable thump of a boot. Someone was there, someone had snuck up on them, someone had been listening. Edward leapt from his seat and pounced on the person. He threw him over towards Herbert and into the light of the lantern.
It was John. He scrambled to right himself after Edward's toss and held his arms up in front of him. "Please, please wait, Edward," he cried.
"What are you doing here? What did you hear?" Edward rose as high as he could above John, but the low ceiling of the hold didn't allow much vantage. Thankfully John was still on his back, so Edward was able to tower over him.
"I came to get you. The captain is calling you two back above," John sputtered, and the words came in a jumble. He was trembling with fear and backing away from Edward as much as he could in the confined space. "I heard what you were saying about Calico Jack, about him being your father, about how you're going to kill him. Edward, I'm your—"
Edward had already pulled out a knife from his belt. He thrust it into John's neck, silencing him at once. Blood poured from the wound even before Edward pulled out the knife, and afterwards, it flowed like water from a burst dam.
John clutched his neck, desperate to stop the torrent. He reached out towards Edward as he writhed in pain, tears streaking his face and mixing with the blood on the sole. He tried to call out for help, but he could only mouth the words as a limp, weak, gurgled noise escaped his lips before he sputtered blood. His movements became sluggish, his hands fell to the deck, and his eyes fell and opened to the rhythm of a fading heartbeat. Another few twitches and John's life left him.
The kind young man who had shared with Edward his cup and his bread was no more. The one person aboard the ship who had been kind to Edward and Herbert was dead. If only he hadn't snuck up on them to listen, he would have lived another day.
Whatever it was John was about to say to try and gain back their trust after spying on them, Edward couldn't take the chance of him telling Grace of their plan. Or at least that was the justification Edward used for lashing out on instinct
