#collab.jam

“Yes, boss,” Ivan says, hurrying below deck and Izzy can’t help but feel grateful that it was Ivan on deck, one of the few crewmembers who actually seems to understand that certain things out here mean life or death. Within a few minutes the crew is assembled on deck, looking at Izzy expectantly as the ship rapidly gains ground on them, and he realizes he hasn’t a clue what to do.

Izzy knows, strategically, the maneuvers they could take to try and outrun the ship bearing down on them. He also knows which of the men he can rely on to fight: Ivan, Fang, Jim, and potentially Wee John all spring to mind. But the thought of actually barking these orders out, of making the decisions completely by himself, fills him with dread. If he makes the wrong move this crew will die, and it will be because of him.

This is maybe the part of godhood that he had never considered, not that he would think himself on their level; they must be burdened constantly by the weight of having to know all the answers. It must come easily to them, but as he looks out at the crew, he can imagine exactly the sort of pressure they’re under.

“There’s no time to try a negotiation,” Izzy warns them. “They’re coming, and they’re boarding. “Let me handle it until I tell you otherwise, understood?”

A hushed murmur of affirmations rises to meet him. The only other time he’s heard the crew so silent and so serious was a few hours earlier, before they were abandoned. The sober mood has come back. All they can do is wait.

Luckily, they are not kept waiting long before the ship is within range, and a long ladder is placed to bridge the gap between decks. Even for sailors, the boarders are dirty and coated in what Izzy first assumes to be gunpowder, but quickly realises with a sinking heart is ash. These aren’t pirates who can be bribed, or navy men who can be threatened. They’re devotees, not unlike him, except their loyalty lies with a god who bears even less mercy than the Kraken, and only a fraction of the foresight.

Izzy’s run in with the Calico’s devotees have been few and far between, especially recently, something he can only feel grateful for. The Calico is ruthless, revelling in the pain of his followers just for the fun of it. At least the Kraken’s punishments had a point.

Izzy knows that he can’t let these followers come close to the crew. They would delight in their softness, in ruining it. He’s almost surprised by the cold that runs down his spine at the thought, and the determination to stop any harm coming to the crew. It’s his fault they’re in this mess. He knows that the Calico and the Kraken have history, and he wouldn’t be surprised if this is one final punishment from his god. He won’t let the crew suffer for his mistakes.

Izzy tightens his grip on his sword, forcing his shoulders back and his chin up as he faces down the follower facing him. He isn’t surprised that he doesn’t recognise them; the Calico runs through devotees fast, discarding them like broken toys when they’ve burnt themselves out. Izzy has hardly ever seen the same one twice.

The follower launches themself at him. He doesn’t even bother checking to see if they’re carrying a weapon, his sword dancing through the air as he cuts them down, and that seems to be the signal for the rest of them to swarm onto the deck. He lets himself wonder for just a second if there could have been a way to talk them down, but he knows that the followers are here for one thing, and one thing only. If it’s bloodshed they want, he’ll happily give it to them.

He’s surprised by the way his own crew responds with the same fervor. The deck becomes a frenzy of bodies clashing, screams and blood spraying the air in equal measure. It’s been a long time since Izzy participated in a fight like this, but wielding a sword is something one never forgets how to do. Things that require balancing the forces of life and death, trained into the very fibers of a man’s muscles, are difficult to forget. He knows when to swing and when to slice, knows how many steps he needs to take on each turn like a ballerina’s pirouette into the next death he commands. Again, he’s struck with a sense of power. This is power. Not just taking down the words of deities, and not just spreading their messages to every willing ear, but getting to take the beating of another’s heart into his hands and make it stop. And it is a power he wields by himself, every decision his own.

“Izzy!”

He doesn’t bother to correct the informality, or even process who screamed his name, simply pivoting to the sound and blocking what would have surely been a deadly blow from a sailor scant more than a child. He wants to let her go. Instead, he sends a whispered prayer to anyone who might be listening when he used to send them to the Kraken, and runs the long blade of his sword through her shoulder. When he pulls it back, she crumples, and he does not check to see if she’s still breathing. There isn’t time.

The second he looks up he sees Jim, cornered against the mast, slashing with a knife he knows them to be far more proficient at throwing, but they are unable to find the space to do so. He crosses the deck without a second thought. Another new thing, he realizes, is his willingness to risk his own life to save theirs. Loyalty amongst men is a funny thing, far different for what he has shown to the gods.

He will not get rewarded for this show of loyalty, quite the opposite, if the sword slicing through his arm is any indication. He can feel the warm trickle of blood dripping down his skin, and the stinging pain, but it barely slows him down as he cuts his way through the chaos to Jim. He has suffered far worse pain. He’s used to pushing it aside when he has something to fight for. He just never thought that would include anything other than the Kraken.

He manages to get to Jim, he can see from the sweat dripping down their face that they wouldn’t have been able to hold on for much longer. They don’t display any worry about their situation, just give Izzy a nod before they dash back into the fray. The stinging in his arm fades as Jim darts off, and when he glances down the fabric is unripped, as if nothing had happened.

Izzy has barely a second to consider it before he is blocking another attack, pushing forward into the fray. He scans the deck, taking in the bodies piled high, heart sinking at the constant stream of attackers still making their way onto the ship. His crew has held up longer than he thought possible, but they can’t hold on forever. For every attacker they cut down, another seems to step forward and take their place.

He has a moment to wonder how many people there could possibly be before a wayward arm catches him upside the head, sending stars across his vision and forcing him to his knees. A curse escapes him before he manages to get back to his feet. The air feels tight again, like it normally does around Edward and Stede. He’s currently far more inclined to label it as panic and his own physical weakness then any interaction by the divine.

As he raises his sword again he realizes just how exhausted he has become by this. Not only the fighting, but the living, the breathing, the being. His crew is holding their own for now, but with no end in sight there’s no way they’re making it through this. The night will swallow them whole, and with their bodies left on the deck to be desecrated by the Calico’s worshippers there is no other side of heavens and beauty and riches to look forward to. Dying in honor of one’s god grants them eternity. Dying a failure is a promise of emptiness and damnation.

Izzy heavily considers the notion of lowering his sword and baring his neck to be slashed open, his body crumpling to be burned and worse. Nothing but a book that will surely be incinerated will remain of the things he has tried to do for the Kraken.

It is only the smell of burning, thick and cloying, that stops him. When he dies, it will not be in flames, it will not be quick, and it will not be under the eyes of the Calico. He may not have earned eternal rest in the Kraken’s arms, but he is determined that his final moments will still be in his embrace. The Kraken is not a kind god, but he is a just one, and Izzy hopes that he has at least earned that final mercy in Edward’s eyes.

He stumbles to the railing, hands gripping the wood, knuckles white, as he stares down at the rolling waves. The clanging of swords and screaming fades into the background as he looks down, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in his ears. It’s far easier than he thought it would be to take that final step over the edge, and he's falling, stomach swooping as he plummets towards the end he always knew was coming.

The air is knocked out of his lungs as he smashes against the waves, and he gasps on instinct, sputtering as he swallows mouthfuls of water, the salt stinging his throat. He sinks down into the depths, falling away from the ship and the crew and the Calico’s men and this whole damned voyage.

Izzy had heard that as you died, your life flashed behind your eyes. That, it seems, is not just an old wives’ tale, but has some truth in it. As he falls deeper and deeper beneath the depths, the world growing darker and darker, he remembers his childhood, as short and miserable as it was.

His fate was not an uncommon one: the youngest and smallest of a mass of kids, a mother who found peace in opium, and a father who drank far too much and whose preferred method of finding his own peace was beating the shit out of whichever family member was closest. Food, clothes, and love had all been scarce, and Izzy was never exactly going to win a fight against his elder siblings for it.

Izzy prayed as a child. He prayed for warmth when his hands stung with the cold, prayed for food when his stomach ached, prayed for someone to protect him. To care for him. To love him. He had hated praying to Stede, even back then. But Stede was meant to be the protector of lost souls. He was said to wipe away the tears of children crying out in the dark, telling them bedtime stories until they drifted peacefully asleep.

So, feeling even smaller than he usually did, Izzy would curl up in whatever corner he was hiding in, eyes squeezed tight. He would recite the prayers that had been taught to him, over and over again.

He remembers the story of the way humanity was constructed by the gods long before the first iterations of that sequence of events was taken down. Mankind was cobbled together on a balmy summer afternoon, after the land had been set for them and the seeds planted to feed their hungry mouths. In some tellings of the beginning, it was the work of an egret of a God, dressed in the most blindingly white feathers, creating sparks of heartbeats between beats of its wings all across the habitable land of the Earth, which had come quite a long way since its first moments.

Every deity gave something to the shriveled, pink, pathetic creatures set to inherit what was not built for them, to help them along in their path and live lives fully dedicated to the service of one or more of their creators. Izzy first read texts of the Kraken when he was too young to fully parse out the words’ true implications. He fell in over his head, he thinks, but he would not have it any other way. There were those who sighed intelligence into unprepared ears, and who taught rough palms to craft the first fires, and who strummed melodies unlike what a sole human might be capable of producing, and who sharpened weapons for the first murder. The Kraken gave them all the passion of the tumultuous high seas for them to make use of the gifts others had given them.

It is for reasons like this that Izzy adores him so completely; without the Kraken, there is no possibility of true experience in life, not of the gifts from the other deities and not of their own inventions. Stede, on the other hand, thought it prudent to give them tenderness at what had been the closest approximation gods experience to a birth. While this alone does not encapsulate all that Stede is or represents, it is what he deemed most important to share with the pathetic dribbling creatures most of humanity has become. Tenderness has never been afforded to Izzy, and he has undoubtedly encountered too many men who are ignorant of such a trait. The Kraken made them useful. Stede made them capable of cruelty.

The waves swallow Izzy and it feels almost like a hug. Despite himself he finds himself thinking of Stede’s beginnings more and more. Different scriptures give different views on the god's origin, and the man himself seems unconcerned with setting the record straight. Izzy figures it doesn’t much matter how the god came into being, all that matters is that he is here now.

The worst part about the discrepancy between Edward and Stede is that Stede seemed to listen when Izzy was a child. He would pray and then find some food on the street, discarded and stale but otherwise perfectly fine. Or his brother would suddenly hit a growth spurt and he would be handed down a set of warm clothes just as the winter chill was setting in. All he had to do was feel small and helpless, and he would be given what he needed.

Perhaps to the gods, humans are always pathetically small in that way. With the currents taking him deeper asunder, he can tell that even this small portion of the ocean is unfathomably large. It is still a microscopic piece of one tiny slip of the Kraken’s domain, and he alone is only one of many gods. He is infinitesimal in his plight. No matter what he thinks he is or has done, at the end of his life, he will simply be relegated to a whisper of memory, just as the Kraken’s first priest was.

When the humans first rose into existence with the Kraken, not quite monkeys but not yet more, there was a boom in innovation like none had ever seen. Every deity had something to give to this final exam of creation, which was intended to carry them on through indefinite centuries of worship and humble service. The Kraken first walked among humans then, before he gave them any gifts, to get a good handle on who they are, and who they will ever be. The Kraken, a mysterious monster full of eldritch possibilities and seething rage, gave the gift of passion to humanity. He gave them the ability to feel all the emotions whittled into their cores by the others so fully that their very souls are almost bursting with it. It gave them the ability to hate, to kill, to maim, to destroy- but it also came with devotion. There must be passion for devotion, something the followers of other all-knowing beings should remember. It all comes from the Kraken.

According to legend, the Kraken began hiding himself among humans to keep his eyes on their increasingly unbecoming behavior, taking on this pseudonym or that as he watched. Edward is a popular one, a fact Izzy knows not because all creatures with a brain do, but because he’s been blessed with the intimate knowledge of all forms the Kraken takes. He knows the whispering spilled darkness of tentacles. He knows bronze skin that is deceptively cool to the touch. He knows unfathomable beauty and ephemeral human cheeks. Edward and the Kraken are the same entity, but there’s softness stored between the splashes of wine-dark blood in Edward’s veins, and it is Izzy’s to safeguard and throw himself to the floor for. Edward is capable of extraordinary acts of love. He is also capable of hurting people in ways that the Kraken’s true form is not quite land-faring enough to manage.

Still, he receives a daily devotion from countless followers around the world, even if none are so fervent as those Izzy bestows upon him the second he can force breathy words from his throat on a foggy morning.

The scriptures do agree, however inconsistent the many versions, that Stede is a newer god, and that there had not been Stede without humanity, or humanity without Stede. He is their constant protector, answering the prayers of the needy, inspiring communities, guiding even the coldest of hearts to help their neighbor. With the rounding circles of gifts and intentions dancing waltzes through the souls of every human being, it is no wonder that so many are devoted, and that so few then agree on which of their creators holds the most power and deserves the most of their attention and adoration. It has felt like a given longer than it hasn’t, for Izzy; he will always turn first and most attentively to the Kraken. It is not Stede who deserves the affection.

In contrast, the Earth hadn’t yet fully formed when the Kraken came into existence, rising from the humid mires of the primordial soup that first supported life. It was then, according to the texts, that long dark tendrils began to whisper through the waves and a weather-beaten face peeked over the surface. The gods, most of them, came before humans had any right to the world, but there was something in them that calls to mind a delicate human stature. People were created in the divine image, after all.

Under the watchful, burning gaze of the sun, the Kraken made himself real and known. He was born of the sludge, through sheer force of will, with a punishment already written across the tip of his oft forked tongue, prepared to be unleashed upon the first creature to draw his attention. Violence, passion, anger, true justice, were there before even a single person had yet thought to sully the world with their own weak imitations of emotions created to befit a god such as this one. The groundwork was laid for them by the Kraken’s calloused hands. There was no one around yet to appreciate such a thing. Perhaps there never will be.

Sometimes, if one turns their face precisely to the morning sun, there is a saying that the true light of the divine will bathe their eager lips and cheeks, and they will feel the full weight of the love and care that the gods carry for them in all they do. Izzy has done this thousands of times, and has only ever felt the answering call of Edward’s beckoning fingers against the column of his throat. Maybe this is because he has always touched the sea as he does so, or perhaps it is a result of his failure to want anything the others will give to him.

Izzy has long thought of Stede as a sickness, thought that he seeds softness in men’s hearts. That he makes them reliant and complacent, clouds their minds with rotten compassion until they are willing to die for no reason, as long as they die together.

Now, he isn’t too sure. Seeing the crew move as one, allowing them to cut through the waves, to sail through Ed’s domain and weather the storms that roll in with his mercurial moods, he can see the worth in a group acting as one mind. And he can feel Stede with them as well as see him as they act together to heave the sails. He can feel him in the way the crew will sit on deck and share rum and stories after a harsh day, so that they can face the next morning with a smile.

Eventually in Izzy’s childhood, Stede stopped listening, and Izzy found himself abandoned by the god who abandoned no one. So he had given himself to a new god, the only one who listens, the only one who wants a soul as twisted and rotten as his. To the god who understands his unending rage at the world, to the god who urges him to preach of strength and violence and power. He preaches for the god of storms and unimaginable destruction, the god who spurs on pirates during a raid, the god whose hymns are sung in the war drums accompanying soldiers marching onto beaches in the boatload. And he was rewarded for his service.

The memory of Stede standing up to Ed, of needing Stede’s protection, of Ed listening to him, also comes to mind, making his stomach churn as much as the waves tossing him about like a toy do. But, that did take courage, or maybe stupidity, to face a storm, and command it to change course, to become steady waves, and for the storm to listen. To be dismissed. To be called into something gentle.

Izzy’s lungs start to burn, and as he kicks to the surface he gasps for air. One thing he does know for certain is that all the scriptures and philosophers, the preachers and the believers are wrong about one thing. Stede is not a constant. He will make you soft and reliant, and then he will leave. He is the fathers who kissed your skinned knees better, but also the ones who walked out. He is love and the absolute cracking destruction of grief when that love leaves. He had stopped the Kraken’s wrath, but that too was just temporary. You can only calm a storm for so long; in the end it will come back. And Izzy will now return to Edward’s domain for his final judgment, his final reckoning. At that thought, the waves claim him once more, pulling him away from the sweet taste of air.

He does not feel the presence of the gods in the way he did as a mortal. It’s like a warning, a tugging at his mind that someone is nearby, and it lasts for what feels like a long time before the storm clouds on the horizon begin to edge closer and the air shimmers with a short wave of warmth around him.

Tentacles chase the seafoam up the shore toward Izzy, digging winding paths through the sand. Footsteps sound behind him. Izzy lets out a deep breath that he never brings back into his lungs. “Is there a better way to contact you than going someplace and thinking about it?” he asks before he sees either of their faces.

“If you just say our names we’ll hear you. Ed, not the Kraken,” comes Ed’s voice. Seconds later, he comes stepping out of the waves. Izzy wonders if he’s taking a more human form because he prefers it, or if he does it out of a desire to make Izzy feel more comfortable by providing at least a sliver of normalcy within all these changes. Whether Ed is doing it for himself or for Izzy, he still feels grateful. Ed’s human form allows him to reach out for Ed’s hand, traveling together arm in arm has almost made it instinct at this point. It’s only when he’s almost brushing against Ed that he hesitates, wondering whether this is a step too far. He knows that Ed and Stede told him he was no burden, so there appears to be more keeping them here than mere obligation but there’s still a chance he’s misread the situation.

Before he can pull away Ed is taking his hand in his, giving it a small squeeze, smiling at him so bright the glow of it could rival the sun and tugging Izzy closer. Stede appears behind him, slinging an arm against Izzy’s back, nodding slightly as Izzy relaxes into his grip. Stede is warm against him, like the sunbaked stones beneath his feet.

“How was the service?” Stede asks.

“It was good, nice. I think I might be starting to get it.”

Pressed close between the two of them, Izzy realizes he may also get the infatuation they have with one another. He’s always understood love of the Kraken, of Ed, but he’s had a harder time with Stede. Love is a strange thing, intertwined with worship for years when he had nothing and no one but the Kraken. He didn’t feel or participate in real devotion to Stede as an adult. He thinks that what he feels is still love, at least for the Kraken, but it’s too similar to the web of tangled emotions he feels for Stede to be certain of the thought. Love among gods is its own beast. It’s more than he felt as a mortal, but in a lot of ways, somewhat empty. He does not get to feel the love in his blood and in the air he breathes, but he does get to taste it when he opens his mouth to speak.

“I ran into Jack today,” he says. One of Edward’s tentacles curls around his leg, but unlike when he was mortal, it doesn’t burn or bruise in its wake. It’s just another way that he’s held. “He wanted to get my name.”

“If he gives you any trouble, let me know,” Ed says, voice low, the tentacle’s grip on Izzy tightening slightly. “He likes his fun, but he knows better than to mess with the hierarchy.”

“He’s a dick,” Stede adds, and Izzy’s unsure whether it’s his way of agreeing with Ed or a statement in its own right.

“Yeah, but harmless enough to you now.”

“He was at the church. What if he goes after the congregation, especially the crew? I don’t know if I’ll be able to protect them,” Izzy says, words rushing out. It’s strange to feel consumed with fear, mind flashing between different scenarios that all end with the church in flames and his followers screaming for help, while his body remains completely calm.

“Then we’ll protect them. They were our crew too,” Stede says, voice firm.

“I can’t keep just relying on you two for help, what sort of fucking god am I?”

Edward takes Izzy’s face in his free hand, grip gentle but firm. Once their eyes meet, he says, “It takes time, Iz. Time you have a lot of now, so don’t worry so much. We’re here with you.”

“It doesn’t…” Izzy trails off, but doesn’t pull away from Ed. “I feel like I should just know. You both seem to.”

“And we’ve had centuries of practice,” Stede tells him.

Izzy shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at Edward or Stede anymore. Without being able to hear and feel their thoughts like the mortals, it allows him a moment’s reprieve to think about the rest of time splayed out before him. He does have centuries. He has forever.

“I’m going to be around for centuries,” he says, mostly to hear the words aloud. “Everyone I’ve ever met is going to die and their whole lives will be just a second of mine.”

Izzy has spent his entire mortal life trying to be alone, flinching away from any sort of connection. Even as a priest he kept his congregation at an arm's length. It’s almost cruel that right at the end he found people who forced him to care about them, only for them to get snatched away. A year passed by like a lazy morning, and they’ll just keep rushing by him, faster and faster. There will be a point when he comes by the church and there will be nothing left of the crew but a neat row of grave stones.

“That will get easier too. You’ll find yourself getting better at appreciating the little moments instead of trying to grab onto every single one.”

“Anyways, you’re not going to be alone. You’ve got us,” Ed adds with a shrug. “That’s not nothing, is it?”

While Izzy gets what they mean, that doesn’t make it easier in the now. “I wish it wasn’t so hard.”

“Hard things are worth doing though, aren’t they?” Stede asks.

“They are, but-” Izzy cuts himself off. “I don’t think- I know that I haven’t earned this. I shouldn’t be a god, I shouldn’t even be alive, I-”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Stede is suddenly pressing in close, lips brushing against his and everything freezes as Izzy’s brain struggles to make sense of this new reality. Stede seems to take the wrong message from Izzy’s lack of response, pulling away. Izzy finds himself grabbing at the god before he can get far, keeping him close.

The idea of kissing a god, of kissing Stede, had seemed so out of reach that he hadn’t even contemplated the possibility before. Not really. But now that he is faced with it he realises he wants nothing more. Izzy moves closer, unsure what to do with his hands and deciding to keep them where they are, bunched up in the teal fabric of Stede’s coat, as he kisses him. Stede seems content to let Izzy take the lead, slowly kissing him back and smiling at Izzy as they pull away like he hung the stars themselves.

“Sorry, I probably should have asked, but you just seemed so panicked and I wasn’t sure how else to reassure you that you should be here with us. There’s no one I’d rather we share godhood with than you, Israel.”

Izzy nods silently, still lost for words as he gathers his bearings. He hasn’t kissed anyone in quite some time, come to think of it. Not since one stolen in a dingy alley when he had yet to grow into his face. This is worth the waiting, though, he thinks, because maybe he would not appreciate this the same if the intimate act was more familiar with him.

Before he can manage to get his scattered thoughts together, Ed kisses him. It’s just as passionate as Stede’s kiss, but some of the tenderness is forgone in favor of a gentle bite to his bottom lip. There lies the sting that Izzy has always associated with the Kraken. It’s just tamer now. Manageable. He finds it not just bearable, but pleasurable, to experience any kind of pain doled out by Edward.

Izzy waits for the guilt to well up at wanting something from Edward so selfishly as he pulls him in for another kiss. While the way he runs his hands reverently across Edward’s skin could be called an act of devotion, or worship even, it’s clear he’s doing it for his own pleasure as much as he’s doing it for Ed. The guilt never comes. Instead, all he feels is a buzz that is equal parts excitement and nerves, and it pushes him toward Stede.

Izzy isn’t certain how much time passes in a blur of discarded clothes, revealed skin and frantic touches as the three of them try and learn everything about each other's bodies. Stede and Edward seem to know each other intimately already, likely from practice and countless opportunities like this one, but his is a new canvas for them to explore, as theirs is to him.

But as Izzy lays naked afterward, his body boneless as he sinks into the sand beside Ed and Stede, he is certain he could have spent an eternity in that moment. He’s unsure if it always would have felt that good, or if godhood has made it better, but he knows he has never experienced bliss like he just had. Some of the grief at losing all that had been his life before has washed away when presented with the potential for pleasure that godhood can give him.

He begins to conceptualize worship in another way. It can also be the kind of love that was painstakingly kissed into his skin like a blessing. Waiting was worth this. Everything was. He allows himself to guide new paths beneath Ed’s collarbones with his fingertips, find new unmarked places along Stede’s throat where he might be able to leave his own fleeting bruises, and revel in the simple pleasure of being with them.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

As many times as Izzy has said those words before, all with the same revering tone, it has never been like this: on equal footing, not allowing excessive gratification at the mere act of being acknowledged, but welcomed as someone who stands next to the gods as one of their own.

“I think I know what I’d like to be called.”

“Yeah?” Ed asks, a lazy smile on his face as he stretches out on the beach, skin glowing under the midday sun.

“I think I’d quite like to tell the church,” Izzy says. His first followers should be the first people to hear his new name. He feels as if they were as much a part of his ascension as anything else.

“We can go now?” Stede offers, already pulling on his clothes and trying to smooth down his golden curls. It’s a strangely mortal action, considering Izzy’s fairly certain he could just will his hair to sit the way he wants it.

“Yeah I’d quite like that.” Izzy says, and a few moments later they’re holding out their hands to him.

He takes their hands in his and keeps his eyes open as they travel. The church shows the markings of having withstood catastrophe while he was gone; wind and rain have beaten down the path as surely as footfalls, sun has bleached the grey paint paler, and black charring creeps up the side of a wall beneath what appears to be a hasty patch while they await better materials. He tries not to think of the ways the actions of other gods impact those he follows, though it was a sure fact as a follower of the Kraken when he was mortal.

When he goes inside, he notes that Ed and Stede wait for him just outside the arching doors, giving him privacy when he walks in to find Olu and Buttons tending to the altar. Jim must be nearby, as they’re almost never far from Oluwande, but the others must be off on different activities. He considers it a small miracle, perhaps one of his own making, that he has always stumbled upon a busy property with fully seated pews when he’s come in the past.

His feet make audible steps as he approaches them, leading both to turn around. Buttons still has his bird perched atop his head, though she seems agitated by the church or Izzy’s presence, he can’t tell which. She remains with them, however, so Izzy takes it as a polite acknowledgement from Anne as opposed to a slight.

“It’s good to see you,” Olu says first, stepping forward before seeming to think the better of it. “It’s been a while.”

“It has,” Izzy agrees, studying the few whitish grey hairs that speckle Oluwande’s beard. “I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

Buttons doesn’t seem put off by this fact, though when he does move a little closer, it’s with a hobble that lends to his already old age drawing nearer to the end of his life. “Time is different to a god, sir, I think you’d know that.”

“You’re right. I wanted to-” the words feel wrong and too heavy in Izzy’s mouth. “I’ve come to tell you my name.”

They both straighten up in preparation to receive the information. It reminds Izzy of the way he once stood in early mornings in another lifetime. Reassured and warm, he finds in himself the courage to speak his name aloud for the very first time.

“You can call me the Basilica,” Izzy declares, and he’s pleased by how right it feels to say it, as if it was his name all along and it’s only now that he’s discovered the fact instead of something he’s chosen.

“It’s a strong name,” Buttons says, giving an approving nod.

“It’s a type of church, isn’t it?” Olu asks.

“Aye.”

“It suits you. It’s a place of worship but also of sanctuary. Makes sense,” Olu says with a nod and something settles in Izzy’s chest, a sense of belonging and purpose.

In the back of his mind, he thinks he knows why the name came to him, but it feels right that Oluwande gets it too. He knows he made a good choice making him his first priest; the community is in good hands. In time, he will eventually have to appoint someone else, and figure out how to keep the congregation going, but that doesn’t seem so daunting a task anymore. He knows who he is now, as well as what his place is meant to be in the pantheon, making everything else feel not so difficult to parse out. And when he can feel Ed and Stede’s presence in the back of his mind, there is the added comfort of knowing he doesn’t have to work it all out on his own.

With a final acknowledging nod, Izzy turns and leaves the church, allowing the warmth and surety coursing through his being to stain the walls and linger behind him. He is the one who reaches out this time, taking Ed’s hand in his right one and Stede’s in his left, content with the understanding that this was always meant to come.

“Alright, love?” Ed asks, squeezing his hand.

Izzy nods. “Perfect.”

He remembers the church’s nearness to the water, and takes his first steps toward it once more. The shoreline is a place of familiarity and rebirth at once, and when they find themselves on the sand of the beach where he offered every minute of his life in service, the ocean seems to welcome him with its gentle laps at his feet. He could drift off into its depths, safe and content, floating atop the seafoam and feeling the rays of sunshine on his face. Ed lifting him up, Stede meeting him, both equal parts of balancing all he’s ever been and wanted to be.

“You’re awake! Good, thought I might have lost you for a second there,” Roach says with a small chuckle, making his way over. “How are you feeling?”

Izzy tries to answer, to say that he feels like shit and to ask how the fuck they found him, because last thing he remembers is being completely alone, not a ship in sight. All that comes out is a croak.

“Right, drink this,” Roach commands, pouring Izzy a glass of water. “I’ve also got some tea I can brew, should help with the throat and stave off any sickness.”

Roach strides towards him, resting a hand on his forehead for a second before pulling it back, looking him over with a practiced eye.

“You don’t appear to have a fever, but I’ll be monitoring you.”

Roach helps Izzy shift until he sits upright in bed, handing him the glass. The water is cool and soothing, and when it’s gone, he feels able to speak.

“What happened?”

“You got… knocked overboard in the fight, but we managed to fish you out,” Roach says, smile growing strained. Izzy wonders if people saw him let himself fall- if they’re just giving him the false dignity of a lie. “We managed to fend off the last of the men, but Buttons says Karl has spotted a ship in the distance that’s been tracking us. We’re managing to stay ahead but with the wind the way it is, well… it is good that you’re awake.”

Izzy nods at that. He guesses it was too much to ask that the Calico would give up. It isn’t like he cares how many followers he loses as long as he can recruit more.

“How did you find me? When I fell I was swept away.”

He purposefully doesn’t look at Lucius, but he can feel the man stiffen beside him when he speaks.

“We found you floating on top of the water, following behind the ship. Sort of like a miracle,” Roach says.

Izzy’s heart sinks. It appears that he wasn’t even worthy of the dignity of a death in Edward’s domain. His final punishment is to live out the rest of his life without purpose or guidance, knowing when he does die it will not be under the eyes of one to whom he has given so much. There’s a flicker of anger there; he knows he failed, but he does not feel he deserves this. Following on the tails of the anger is a sickly swirl of guilt, which in turn only stokes the anger further, because what does he have to feel guilty for? He is no longer beholden to Edward. He has no duty to him.

He has no duty to anyone anymore, except these men who have given him the title of Captain- a title he has not yet earned. It takes more effort than he expects, but he manages to pull himself out of bed, the first few steps unsteady as black spots swim in his eyes. He forces a few deep breaths for the lightheadedness to clear and continues to cross the room.

“I told you to stay in bed,” Roach protests, even as he puts a hand out to steady Izzy.

“You said a ship was trailing us. Doesn’t matter how I feel if we’re all dead.”

“You make a fair point,” he replies, helping Izzy to make his way out of the room and onto the deck

The cool sea breeze is pleasant against his skin, although the scent of salt on the wind causes the gaping emptiness to creep back into his chest. It reminds him of mornings spent in the surf, communing with Edward, a ritual he will never indulge in again. Either the Calico will catch him and do what he will, or Izzy will make it home, and have no reason to visit the beach again. He will have to find some other way to occupy his days.

“Captain!”

Buttons’ voice shakes him out of his thoughts and back to the matter at hand. He has a crew he needs to look after. He has to focus. He’s not completely unused to having a group of people relying on him, although he’d never felt particularly suited to the community aspect of the priesthood, but he supposes that in the same way he was tasked with guiding his congregation to salvation, he has a duty to guide these men to safe shores. It is his final vow, and he will not break it. They will not die because of his failure. He has blood on his hands, lives he has happily taken in service of the Kraken, but now that he no longer acts under the guidance of a god, he refuses to add to the stains on his soul. There is little use to pain and destruction without purpose. He isn’t one of the Calico’s followers, after all.

“Mr. Buttons,” Izzy starts, clinging to the honorific, to the sense of normalcy and structure it brings, “I hear there is a ship chasing us.”

“Yes, Captain. Karl here says it’s been following us for the past day. Changed course just to be sure, and it stayed with us.”

Izzy gives a sharp nod in acknowledgement, hand resting on the railing to steady himself.

“Any identifying marks?” he asks, already certain of the anwer. There is little reason for anyone besides the Calico to follow them.

Buttons pauses and looks over at Karl. The sight of them communing has not grown any less strange, and Izzy still has not figured out the link between Selene and seagulls, but he supposes all gods have their quirks. Now, watching Buttons communicate with his, all he can feel is a deep, aching longing for the connection he has lost forever. He has been abandoned once more. Maybe it was inevitable that a soul as twisted as his would never be wanted for long.

“Karl says that the mast had scorch marks on it, but it flies no flag.”

“Right. Well, they’re unlikely to stop until they catch up with us. How far till land?” he asks, peering over the map Buttons rolls out.

It takes him a few seconds, but he manages to figure out where they are with minimal guidance from Buttons. As they discuss different strategies, the wind, the repairs that need to be made, and the capabilities of the boat and crew, Izzy feels a warm surge of pride. He still has the skills earned in Edward’s service; his god has not taken all the gifts he has given him. He has left enough to be useful. Hopefully, it’s enough to get the crew out of this.

A few hours later, when he retires back to his room with an aching in his bones that refuses to be ignored for even a second longer, they have a plan. It will require more than their fair share of luck, but there’s a chance that they can get out of this unscathed. And, if they can’t, Izzy’s already thinking of ways to make sure the rest of the crew make it out. His own survival hardly registers as a concern. The void in his chest is at least somewhat soothed by the plan he has to face the coming day, and so he holds onto that tentative sense of purpose to see him through.

As the Calico’s ship draws nearer by the hour, Izzy is still weaker than he would prefer. The near death experience has taken a heavy toll on him, even if he has survived with a surprisingly low amount of physical side effects. There have been no moments where he cannot breathe around the water that didn’t make it out of his lungs, or leftover bruises and broken bones from the terror of the waves, but his whole body feels so sapped of energy that it takes too much out of him to do much more than make a couple of appearances on deck each day. He knows he should work harder to get his strength back up, but there’s a bone-deep exhaustion wringing around his veins that he can’t seem to shake.

“Captain,” Oluwande says, shaking his shoulder later that same night. Izzy groans into his pillow and doesn’t move. “Captain!” he repeats, more urgently. “For fuck’s sake, Hands, wake up!”

He rolls over and squints at Olu, illuminated by the faint light washing through the porthole. “What?”

“Jim can make out people on board the vessel. She appears to be on fire, sir.”

“And?”

“And also headed straight toward us.”

That gets his attention well enough. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and tries to get his foggy mind to catch up with wakefulness. He had collapsed into bed early in the evening without changing out of his clothes, so he merely has to put on his vest, boots, and scabbard, even if it takes him three times as long as it used to and Olu keeps reaching out as if to offer help.

“Is everyone awake?” Izzy asks.

“Just me and Jim. I came to you first.”

He nods and settles his hand on his sword. “This’ll be worse than the last one. Wake everyone and take the dinghies. Don’t bring a lantern. Pray to the Kraken, and if you’re lucky, he’ll deliver you to shore.”

“Yeah, sure.” Oluwande follows him out of his quarters. “And what about you?”

“Captain goes down with the ship.”

He doesn’t stop just because Olu does, and continues his journey to the deck. He trusts Olu to wake the others, as he has trusted him to maintain the ship when Izzy hasn’t been able to do scant more than note what tasks lie ahead. Even though the title of first mate has never been officially given, if there is one on this ship now that Izzy is the captain, it would be him.

The rest of the crew filters onto the deck shortly after Izzy makes it there himself, nervous but not headed toward the lifeboat as they should be. He looks over them and considers all the time they’ve spent together at sea.

“Go on then.”

“I think not,” Lucius answers. “Whatever that is, you’re not facing it alone.”

“It’s a flag ship, idiot. You won’t survive.”

“Whose?” Frenchie asks.

Buttons, ever helpful, steps down from the steering wheel to join them, his speech jibbered by his “fighting teeth” capped over the normal ones, sharp and deadly. “It’s on fire, so I reckon it’s the Calico.”

The silence that falls over them would be gratifying under any other circumstances. This time, however, Izzy can’t even enjoy it. He knows he’s not enough, never has been, but it’s one thing to know that and another to feel it as the Calico approaches. The Kraken will not save him from this. Stede will not save him from this. He will not save himself from this. All he can do is try and convince this crew to save themselves, but they have never followed orders well and he supposes it would be unreasonable to expect them to now. Part of him had at least hoped their own survival instincts would do something.

“There’s no honor in dying at the hands of a god you don’t worship,” Izzy tells them. “This death will not be one worth having. You will die slowly, and it will hurt the entire time, and you will be relegated to infinite torture at the hands of his hell. If you value your souls-”

Now it is Pete who interrupts him. “There’s no honor in abandoning your Captain, either.”

“Above all else, loyalty to your Captain,” Oluwande recites. “Isn’t that what Edward always said to you?”

“Besides, we hauled your ass back onto this ship for a reason, boss,” Fang says.

Roach nods. “Be a pretty dick move to lay down and die when we worked so hard to save you.”

Something warm and foreign swells in Izzy’s chest. He does not fight to suppress it, and instead braces his hand on the hilt of his sword and watches the ship on the horizon. It’s only a matter of minutes before it happens upon them.

“Okay, then here’s the plan. Everyone goes into the dinghy- no fucking arguments, just listen. Take provisions with you just in case. I imagine the Calico will want to board our vessel. I don’t know what he’ll do when he does, but the moment he’s off his own, climb aboard it. I’ll distract him and his followers until you’re on, and then we use the element of surprise against them. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Captain,” come eleven voices in unison.

He nods and waves a hand to dismiss them. They start on the preparations immediately, hushed and moving in the low light like shadows. Oluwande gives a couple soft orders before coming to Izzy’s side and watching him from the corners of his eyes.

“I’m staying with you, Izzy. Only way to stop me is to kill me yourself.”

Izzy sighs. “I suppose you can stay. But no heroics.” He raises his voice slightly louder to add, “Did you lot hear that? No fucking heroics or I’ll make you wish the Calico killed you.”

Another round of ayes and agreements murmur toward him. They’re running out of time, he realizes, but the moment he does, he hears the boat splash into the water. Jim had been working to lower it, and climbs down the ladder after it with a last glance over their shoulder at Olu. The two share a loaded look and a nod before Jim’s hat disappears beneath the banister.

“Do you think we have a chance?” Olu asks.

“No. Not in the slightest.”

Oluwande nods and straightens his posture next to Izzy, as proud as the man has ever seen him. “Figured not. But I’ll be damned if any of us are letting you go down alone.”

Within seconds, the ship is upon them. As before, a ladder bridges the gap, managing to be the only part of the other vessel that isn’t on fire. Four of its crew board first, stepping to the side and kneeling reverently before a figure that seems to be entirely flickering flame and black smoke crosses over. Izzy and Olu drop to their knees as well, but not because they want to. It just happens. This is the way of gods who don’t care to earn worship like the Kraken does.

The Calico slowly solidifies as he steps aboard, the flames mostly receding into small tongues that dance over burn-scarred arms and in the eyes of a man who, Izzy thinks immediately, is in dire need of a good bath. He reeks of ash and burning flesh. His boots are heavy as they come closer, eventually pausing directly in front of Izzy and Oluwande.

“I had heard Blackie found a new pet,” the Calico says, his voice every bit as gruff and burning as the fire which he represents. “Thought there’d be more of a crew here, though.”

“Blackie?” Oluwande questions.

“Blackbeard, the Kraken, Edward, whatever the fuck. You know who I’m talking about.”

Izzy bites his tongue against a disrespectful remark. He can’t let this end too quickly; his crew needs time to do their duty. He’d prefer they simply get away, but if they intend to fight, he will allow them the grace of a decent chance.

“I hear that someone on board was taking down notes for him,” the Calico continues, “a priest of his. Father Hands, was it?”

Neither Izzy nor Olu look up, both knowing the confirmation in store if they do. It’s become immediately clear now that whatever this deity has in store for Izzy is going to be unpleasant. He’ll take the punishment. He just hopes his crew has the chance to get to safety first.

The Calico laughs. “That guy is such a little fucking freak. He claims to be all about the Kraken, and then what does he do whenever he feels guilty? Yeah, he fucking burns himself. Gives it all to me, I’d say. That’s worship, ain’t it?”

Izzy spits on the floor, and a searing boot kicks his leg, leaving smoke and ash printed in its wake. The burn is not too bad, he thinks, because it hurts but not agonizingly so.

“Guess it doesn't matter too much. I’m here for Father Hands, so which one of you sorry fuckers is him?”

At that moment, a roaring of voices rises from the other ship. The crew has arrived to fight then. Izzy does not allow his body to sag in relief, nor does he permit any expression to cross his face. He has to keep the Calico distracted, if only so his crew meet their end at human hands rather than those of a god.

“Your idiots?” the Calico asks.

Oluwande shakes his head. “Loyal followers of Stede and the Kraken.”

A whip materializes in the deity’s hand, white-hot and nearly liquid when it sails through the air to strike against Olu’s face for the insolence. It’s hot enough to burn through the first layer of skin, leaving an angry red line on his cheek that he’s not too proud to coddle in his hand. Izzy watches the smoke curl around his fingers, a thin mask for the grimace curling the opposite side of Olu’s mouth. Izzy can’t tell if he’s looking at the white of exposed muscle or teeth.

“Careful, now. Is one of them Father Hands?”

Someone cries out on the other ship, but the din is so loud Izzy can’t tell if it’s one of his men or one of the Calico’s. Before Izzy can oust himself, the crew begin crossing over the ladder back to this ship, more of Calico’s men on their heels. What brilliance led them to this decision, he does not know. It occurs to him that he will likely never find out.

Oluwande struggles to stand, an invisible force keeping him down, for a long minute before he gives up and remains on his knees. “I’m Father Hands,” he says.

“No!” someone screams, but it isn’t Izzy. It’s Jim, throwing themselves down next to Olu and wiping the blood off their face with their sleeve. “No, it’s not him. I’m Father Hands.”

As if by an unspoken agreement, the others begin to come forward. “I am,” Lucius argues.

“No, I’m Father Hands,” Ivan insists.

Frenchie nods a little, half of his curls matted down to the side of his head with a dark substance that Izzy can only imagine to be blood. “It’s me, actually. Love having my fucking, I don’t know, my little church, for the Kraken-” he cuts off suddenly when Roach elbows him in the side.

Next is the Swede, then Fang, and then Black Pete, and Roach, and Wee John, even Buttons, one after another, arguing in a crescendo. The whole time, the Calico watches Izzy, until finally, Izzy shouts for them all to shut up.

“I’m Father Hands,” Izzy says sternly. “Israel Hands, priest to the Kraken, Captain of the Revenge, and prophet for Stede and the Kraken both. Whatever issues you have with me, leave my crew out of it.”

For a moment, the Calico just stares at him. Then he laughs, a booming thing that rattles Izzy’s bones, before smacking his whip against the deck once more. It leaves a burned, deep score. To use that kind of force on a person- it would be worse than the injury Oluwande has already received.

“Until you can agree, I guess I’ll have to run you all through the ringer,” the Calico muses.

“Alright, enough,” Black Pete yells in his best approximation of Izzy’s tone, which is to say, a very poor imitation. “I appreciate the thought, but you lot need to save yourselves. I’ll take whatever this sorry excuse for a god has in store.”

“Sorry excuse?”

The Calico’s whip reaches Pete easily, slicing across his chest in a manner that has his knees buckling and his voice dying in his throat. Lucius catches him in just enough time to keep him from hitting the deck too hard, but they still both go down, the stink of burning flesh heavy in the air. Izzy’s blood runs cold.

“I could’ve sworn Blackie cared more about respect, whether it was for him or not,” the Calico continues. “Luckily for you, I enjoy a bit of fun and games. Now, for my little spitfires who are still standing, get them all down to the brig. We’ll figure this out sooner or later."

The Calico's followers step over the bodies of their fallen brethren to secure heavy manacles around the wrists of the Revenge's small crew, yanking them back along the precarious ladder between ships. Izzy wishes they wouldn't leave his vessel behind, but he can't do anything without risking the lives of his crew further. He casts a last glance at it. The book of scripture is still tucked into one of the pillows in the captain's quarters for safe keeping.

“Attention, please,” Stede says, his voice carrying easily, but Izzy can almost detect a note of hesitation in his words. It must be wishful thinking. Nothing, and no one, can stop this. “The chores can wait for a moment, I’m sure we’ll have time later.”

Edward considers the motley crew. “More like Izzy will have time later. He’ll finish it for you. I think you’ve been working hard, you deserve a bit of a rest, don’t you, lads?”

The uneasiness is spreading like wildfire. Even Buttons is shifting his weight, wary, his bird nowhere to be seen. None of them know exactly what is coming.

“Don’t you?” The Kraken repeats.

A chorus of affirmative, mumbled and concerned, rise from the small crowd. Stede takes a step back from Izzy and his god.

“It’s been quite some time since I keelhauled someone, I don’t know that I trust my knots to hold him well enough. Would someone secure First Mate Hands for me?”

It’s Oluwande who ties the ropes around Izzy. First are his hands, pressed into a steeple and secured behind his back tightly enough for his muscles to quiver at the strain. Then a secure rope harness is tied around his chest that won’t come loose despite the thrashing he’s about to endure. Izzy has seen keelhaulings before. It’s the kind of thing men die from, if not immediately, then from the infection, and blood loss, and broken bones that come from such a violent punishment. Most captains at sea, even the cruellest, will avoid such a thing in order to prevent the loss of a good crew mate. It serves as a demonstration more than anything else- a reminder of what happens to those who don’t know when to bend a knee.

“Captain,” Lucius says. He looks brave when he steps forward, despite how his voice shares. “I think this may be a bit extreme-”

The Kraken considers him for a moment. “Would you like to join him, Lucius?”

“Right, right. Taking a step back now. As you were, C-Captain.”

From here, the procedure is simple. The rope is arranged so that one end is tied to Izzy and the other is held in the crews’ hands next to the opposite rail. They just have to drop him into the water and pull. It’s easy. Easy to explain, easy to execute, easy in every aspect except experience.

Izzy takes a deep breath that doesn’t fill his lungs half as much as he wishes it would.

“Father Hands,” Edward drawls, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Do you have anything to say?”

“Just that I’m sorry, Captain. I failed you.”

He sighs and shoves hard. For one sickening, perfect moment, Izzy is flying, face down, toward the ocean. The surface slaps him with a hard sting that doesn’t quite fade as he struggles to tell up from down so that he can attempt to reach the surface, but the chance never comes. Izzy feels the sudden tightness where the ropes dig into his body, and he’s being dragged under the boat. He hits his head first, which results in an involuntary scream that fills his mouth with salty seawater, but that alone is not enough. It’s never enough. Every part of him seems to bang against the wood at some point, or in more places than not, the sharp bones of barnacles that tear through his skin like tissue paper. It’s an added cruelty, a reminder of all the ways the crew didn’t respect him before. He doubts they’ll respect him now.

He can’t see, can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t live anymore, not when it’s like this. At least it’s in the ocean. It’s just the ocean. This is a death that belongs to his god. Above all else, Izzy is tired, he realizes. The act of fighting to prove himself to the Kraken through feigned adoration of Stede has proven too much for him. He can’t. There has been enough time spent in sprawling, scrawling cursive letters that he never learned how to make small. This is the end. He will not get the chance to show the world any more of the Kraken than he already has before this end swallows him in a single unchewed bite.

He tries to make peace with that, but the hull slams against his back again and he gasps this time, letting the water now tasting too much like his blood- or maybe he’s imagining that- into his lungs. This is the final evidence that he will not make it. He will die, and it will be his own fault. At least it will be the Kraken’s will. Izzy can say he served him until the end, even if he failed more times than he can count.

Izzy allows himself to surrender to the pain just in time for the shock of air and sunlight to hit him. He sputters and gasps for breath that won’t come, slamming against the side of the ship at least a couple more times on the way up, leaving bloody smears against it that he will have to polish if he doesn’t die from this. His head lolls against his chest and the banister cracks his ribs against as he’s pulled over the side. Finally, he feels the deck beneath his feet, and promptly collapses to his knees.

Several pairs of hands turn him on his side as he desperately hacks up water. Everyone is talking at once. He wishes he could understand, but he knows he doesn’t need to, not when he can vaguely see Edward’s boots in front of him, regal and dark. They melt into tentacles before him, shiny and spirited things that come close but not close enough, before fading back into those boots that Izzy would lick clean if asked.

“He’s fine,” The Kraken says silkily. “Throw him again.”

“Ed, that’s enough!”

Stede.

Stede, who has never learned to keep his mouth shut, has decided to talk back to the powerful Kraken once more, as if he has the right. He does, in many ways. But in the same vein, there is no being in existence that should be able to speak to the Kraken in this way. Izzy would normally think very hard about gutting him for it. A human would absolutely face some sort of payment in blood. He does not think much about that now. Instead, he grabs onto the arm next to his face, with wiry muscle and tan skin, probably belonging to Jim. It feels solid and safe, grounding him.

“You’ll kill him that way,” Stede says sternly.

Edward makes a soft sound of inquiry. “Will I?”

“Humans are fragile, Ed.”

“That they are,” the Kraken laughs, his deadly amusement evident. “That they are, when they’re just humans. It isn’t as if they get to decide when they’re finished, though. That’s up to us, isn’t it? Up to you?”

No one responds to him. Instead, Stede kneels down next to Izzy and places a hot, too hot, hand across his aching jaw. It’s not just his face that hurts. It’s everything. “Back,” Stede commands. Everyone listens, too off-balance to do much else. The world gets brighter, and Izzy breathes in deeply. He always thought dying would be a dark venture, the blackness seeping in at the edge of his vision, inky and fluid in the way that the Kraken’s tentacles are. But it isn’t. It gets lighter, until the world glows in a way he has always associated with Stede. That may hurt the worst. His death will not belong to his own god.

When the light finally dims, the sun cuts a low path in the sky, eking its way towards the horizon and tingeing the world in violet and gold. Izzy is still on deck, though his head is pillowed on something soft. He blinks a few times to adjust and realizes the something beneath him is Lucius’ lap. He sits up straight and feels along his clothes. They are the same as they were before, but they’re dry and unaffected by the scrapes of the hull, and no lingering pain troubles him. He reaches for the chain around his neck and finds it gone as his heart drops. It must have broken off while he was underwater. When he examines himself further, he finds the pin on his vest and the ring around his finger have similarly vanished, almost as if they were never there to begin with. It was not an accident, then. His evidence of devotion has been taken from him.

“I- the chores, they have to-”

“Easy,” Lucius soothes. “It’s alright. We finished everything up. I think you’ll be proud of the work we did.”

Izzy gets at his feet anyways, surprised by how easily they hold his weight after all that has happened. “I still have to check.”

“Izzy-” Lucius says, reaching out to him.

“No!” He turns back to Lucius and gives him a shove that comes a little harsher than he meant to and he swallows down an apology. Now is not a time to be showing weakness. “My name is Father Hands, or First Mate-”

“Reckon it’s Captain Hands now,” Buttons interrupts from the helm.

That stops him cold in his tracks as Izzy turns his full attention to the man. “What?”

“Captain Hands, not First Mate Hands,” Frenchie elaborates. “We voted and everything. It was very democratic.” Jim nods in assent. “Your ship now, man.”

“Did you miserable lot mutiny?” Izzy asks, the thought almost laughable. He is certain that if he does start laughing he won’t be able to stop.

“Fucking hell, Captain, calm down.” Fang says, as if those words don't make everything much worse. “We didn’t mutiny, alright? They left.”

The sentence feels like it should echo, but there is no such thing as that on the open ocean, which is neither strangely calm nor viciously tumultuous right now. It’s just normal. Izzy puts his hand against his chest to make sure he can still feel his heart beating and he hasn’t just gone to some perverse hell where he’s not just punished, but abandoned.

“After Stede healed you, he and the Kraken left,” Black Pete says, leading Izzy to turn and stare at him as if he’s grown a second head.

“You know?”

“Suspected, at least,” Oluwande agrees. “Kinda confirmed it when they both went all-powerful.”

Wee John scuffs his foot against the deck lightly. “When he healed you, Stede said you'd need time to sleep it off a bit. Then Edward got upset, something about how you should be able to just get back up. They argued a little, but then they were both just gone. It’s like they vanished.”

“Gods will do that,” Ivan adds.

There are no words for the hurt that begins to flood Izzy’s veins. It is nothing like the surface physical pain of a self-inflicted burn or a cruel keelhaul. Instead, he realizes what he’s feeling is something akin to all encompassing despair.

“So, Captain,” Buttons says, pulling Izzy from his thoughts, “where are we going now?”

Izzy hangs his head in defeat. “Home. This ship is done.”

So here the crew are, sitting on the deck with an almost unfathomable pile of fine fabrics laid out in front of them, brightly coloured and soft. They must have cost a fortune. Izzy is certain he was looking at more money than his parish received in a year spread out on the deck, ready to be torn to shreds. It’s shameful really, the waste. But for all Stede’s flaws, Izzy figures it to be a lesser one, considering that mortal money means less than nothing to a god.

“What flag are you going to make, Izzy?” Wee John asks, glancing up from where he cuts through a gold, embroidered fabric.

“Hands,” Izzy bites out in response.

“Your flag’s going to have hands on it? That’s not very majestic,” Pete says.

“My name. It’s Hands.” Father or First Mate, he doesn’t particularly care, but to be treated with such a distinct lack of respect and familiarity as to be called by his first name makes his skin crawl. He can’t even remember the last time someone besides Edward or Stede has called him by his first name- not until meeting this lot that is.

“I thought I heard Stede call you Izzy?” Lucius asks, raising an eyebrow, and Izzy grits his teeth, willing his expression to remain neutral.

“My name is Izzy Hands. But you can call me Mr. Hands, Mr. Spriggs,” Izzy says, speaking slowly as if talking to a child. In a way, it feels like he is.

“I think we’ll just stick with calling you Izzy,” Wee John adds. “Anyways, you didn’t answer the question. What flag are you making?”

“I’m not making a flag.” Izzy responds, staring out at the horizon and praying the Kraken may take pity on him and a storm will roll in to take his attention away from this conversation. But the Kraken has never been one for pity, and the sky stays blue and tranquil.

“You don’t have to worry about not knowing how to sew. If you want, you could tell one of us your idea and we could do it.”

“I know how to fucking sew.” Izzy says. Of course he does. He’s mended his clothes so often he’s certain the shirt he wears is currently more scrap fabric and thread than the original material.

“Then why aren’t you making a flag?” The Swede asks, head tilting in confusion.

“Because I’m busy,” Izzy spits, trying not to shift from where he’s standing, looking over them, aware that there is currently nothing occupying his time.

“Busy doing what?” Lucius asks, a smug grin on his face.

“I have to check the rations.” Izzy says, storming below deck.

He knows off the top of his head exactly how much of each supply they have, having counted the rations yesterday and every day before that, the act becoming almost a form of ritual, but it’s something to do- an excuse to leave the conversation on deck, to retreat from the sound of laughter at his back. And doesn’t that fucking sting. He has spent his life carving out a role where he was. And now here he is, in service to his god, about to embark on the most important work of his life, and that respect has been completely washed away.

He’s almost at the store cupboard when he all but runs into Stede, who looks at him with that stupid fucking smile on his face. Izzy would like nothing more than to wipe it off the smug bastard forever.

He doesn’t say that though, and does his best to keep calm. He has learned the importance of choosing words and actions carefully around Stede.

“Captain.”

“Izzy, I was just looking for you! We’re ready to start dictating,” Stede says.

Izzy’s heart starts to race. The frustration that has been building in his chest and the tightness in his shoulders is completely forgotten, replaced by excitement.

Izzy does his best to slow his steps to Stede’s leisurely pace, trying to keep a respectful distance when all he wants to do is race ahead to the Captain’s quarters and start. But Izzy is no stranger to patience, so he keeps his gaze down and his footfalls even, until they finally arrive at the Captains’ quarters.

His Captain is stretched out on the chaise-lounge, smiling with such warmth to his eyes when they enter, although Izzy knows it isn’t for him. He’s not sure he wants to be. He doesn’t deserve warmth from the Kraken, nor does he need it. And while the thought of Edward looking at him like that, as if he is something precious, causes a warm glow to spark up in his chest, it feels sacrilegious to think of a god giving him that. It certainly goes against everything the Kraken has taught him.

“I got this for you to write with, unless you have something you’d prefer to use?” Stede says, handing him a large book bound in soft leather dyed a deep navy, the stitching done with golden thread.

“This is fine,” Izzy says, thinking about the tiny book still nestled in his waistcoat. This is perhaps more fitting for such an endeavor, but part of him doesn’t like the idea of Stede inhabiting a book that rests so close to his heart and details moments with his god that hold the greatest intimacy. “Thanks.”

Stede directs him to sit at one of the ornate gold chairs placed at the frankly obscenely large wooden table. Izzy assumes that Stede was the one who decorated the room. He has to believe it, can’t let himself believe that it was the Kraken who allowed such opulence aboard this ship, who thought that the chandeliers and silk and statues would foster anything but weakness.

“Where to begin?” Edward asks, looking down at Stede, who has come to sit on the floor next to the chaise-lounge with Edward’s hand tangled in his hair. Izzy is glad for the notebook in front of him, and grateful for the excuse it gives him not to look at them.

“The beginning might be a good place to start,” Stede replies.

“Perhaps, but when is that?”

“Good point.”

“Is there something before the first texts?” Izzy asks excitedly, happy for the excuse to remind them that he is still in the room, distinctly uncomfortable with the way his god acts like a lovesick teenager.

“What, don’t be ridiculous. Well, I don’t think so?” Edward says, voice turning contemplative.

“I wouldn’t know, I came later didn’t I?” Stede adds.

“True, I am quite robbing the cradle,” Edward says with a small laugh, a sound Izzy has never heard from his god before. He had heard the Kraken laugh, but there has always been a hint of cruelty or threat woven in it. This is joyful. He isn’t sure he likes it. “Anyways, Izzy, why does that have to be the beginning? You humans are so small minded, always lacking in creativity. Makes you good for following orders, I suppose.”

Izzy feels his face flush. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before; the Kraken has often reminded him about his power, about how small and pathetic humans, and Izzy in particular, appear in comparison. He has reminded Izzy many times whenever he dared to question his will that he could never hope to grasp the decisions of one like him. Izzy has always relished the reminder that he serves something so much more powerful than himself, that his life has a purpose that stretches far beyond him. But it feels different, when Stede is here and this comment is not a lesson for Izzy. Indeed, Izzy hardly needs to be in the room.

“We could start with when we met.”

“Fantastic! When was that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Stede says, pausing, before adding, “I think I remember the how of it, if not the when, so let’s start there.”

Izzy sighs. Of course Stede’s words will sully the pages of this notebook first before the Kraken is allowed to purify it. But there was nothing he can do, especially not with the weight of the Kraken’s gaze on him, so he dips his quill in ink and gets ready to write.

“I first met Ed on a beach. I was just a kid. I remember playing in the sand with some friends,” Stede starts.

“You were human?” Izzy asks, mouth dry. The idea of humans becoming gods, that this is even possible, that it has happened, is absent from any scripture Izzy has ever read. What Stede implies opens up a realm of possibility. Izzy can only begin to imagine the lengths people would go to to try and follow in Stede’s footsteps. The weight of what he may be transcribing in this notebook, the knowledge he would be putting out into the world, hits him, resting heavy on his shoulders.

“Oh, yes.”

“How did you become a god?” Izzy asks, hand trembling slightly.

“As I was saying, I was playing in the sand. Some of the parents were watching us, weaving baskets. I knew a few members of the community had gone out on boats to fish, but they were so far out to sea at that moment that they were mere specks on the horizon.” Stede continues, as if Izzy hadn’t spoken. “We had suffered through a harsh winter followed by a sickness that caused far too many graves to be dug on the island.” Izzy marvels at the profound sadness in his voice, as if he is still grieving the lives lost centuries ago. It’s a reminder of the dangers of Stede’s domain; to let people get to your heart, you have to open up your ribcage to do it.

“They tried to hide it from us, but I could hear the mutterings of the adults about how they weren’t sure the community could survive any more hardships. And then the fishing boats returned, laden with goods, nets full to bursting with what they had caught. I can still remember the laughter and shouts of joy as they pulled everything off the boats. They were planning a feast and talking about how they were going to preserve some of it so they wouldn’t have to go through a winter like the one before again. And amongst all the celebration and relief, there you were,” Stede says, quickly adding, “Ed, I mean,” as if forgetting for a moment that he was technically talking to Izzy.

“He was handsome, walking amongst the mortals, hair swept back and eyes aglow.” Stede pauses, looking over at Izzy, who had stopped writing. He felt uncomfortable with what Stede was saying, making the gods into pining idiots, and it didn’t seem right to add it to the scripture.

“Are you keeping up alright, Izzy? I can go slower.” Stede offers a calm smile on his face, but his eyes are hard, and Izzy sighs, picking up his pen and writing down the rest of Stede’s story. “Normally it doesn’t take you longer than a few seconds to catch up. You write at an impressive speed.”

Izzy ignores the compliments and keeps writing. Once done, he looks over at his god, still sprawled out on the chaise-lounge, but his eyebrows are furrowed slightly as Izzy waits for him to speak.

“Was that really our first meeting? I thought we met on a boat.”

“Really?” Stede asks, and Izzy swallows the instinct to berate him for daring to question the Kraken.

“Yes, it was a crew who had been sailing together through my domain for years. I was bored so I sent a storm, figured it would be a nice test of their skills. They did okay, but some of the damage to the ship ruined their stores. Rookie error to be honest, slightly disappointing. Anyways, they didn’t have enough food to go around, and one of the crew had been caught sneaking extra rations.

"And there you were, as the crew turned on the man who had put himself in front of the needs of the community. The punishment they chose was brutal, and inventive, and you were covered in blood. You could have chosen not to be, but I’m glad you didn’t. That’s how I remember first meeting you, as you oversaw justice carried out and I decided to introduce myself.” Edward says.

Izzy feels something stirring in his chest as Edward describes the fury Stede stirred in the heart of this crew. It’s dangerously close to what he first felt when he heard of the Kraken’s power, and he tries to ignore it, distracting himself by focusing on the rage he feels at hearing Edward fawn over Stede. At least that is a familiar feeling by now.

“Which version do you want me to keep?” Izzy asks, hoping they’ll decide on Edwards and he can rip Stede’s stupid words from the notebook.

“How about both? Give the philosophers something to discuss,” Stede instructs.

“That is a wonderful idea,” Edward agrees and Izzy sighs again.

They continue on the rest of the session like that, sharing stories of their time together, all saccharine nonsense that makes Izzy sick. It’s a welcome distraction from the brief flash of admiration he had felt for Stede and a reminder of all the ways Stede corrupts everything he touches, including, it seems, the Kraken.

Another reason not to give in to Stede’s charms is generously provided for Izzy in the form of the bedtime stories he tells the crew. Izzy has done his best to avoid them, spending time in his cabin reading scripture or going over the notes of what he had written for the day and writing it out in full.

But Edward approaches him after one day’s dictation session and tells him that Stede had noticed he wasn’t joining in on the bedtime stories, and that he’s disappointed Izzy isn’t making an effort with the crew. Izzy knows the order hidden in the words said in far too casual a tone, so here he is, on deck with the crew, as Stede pulls out a book and begins to read.

He is not wearing his frock, unwilling to sully the clothing by wearing it to such an occasion, instead having pulled on a scratchy grey shirt, one of the few clothes he owns that aren’t vestments of some kind. He can feel the eyes of the rest of the crew on him from his position just outside their loose circle, but he does his best to ignore them and pretend to be paying attention to their Captain.

Lucius offers to let Izzy sit beside him with that flirty grin of his that lets Izzy know it’s all a joke at his expense, but then Oluwande also offers, and seems to mean it sincerely. When he stiffly declines, opting to sit apart, on the stairs, he even swears that the crew appear disappointed, although he can’t for the life of him figure out why.

Then again, there are many things he doesn’t understand about this strange crew. Their willingness to subject themselves to story time is one of them. It is, quite frankly, demeaning. These are sailors- they put their lives in their own hands every day they spend on the ocean, at the mercy of a god Izzy adores but knows to be violent, cruel and fickle with his affection. They should be noble and tough. They should understand what Izzy knows too well, that weakness only means pain becomes harder to bear. And yet, here they are, hanging on every word as Stede speaks of some inane story about a girl losing a shoe.

It isn’t just demeaning to the men, either, but to Stede as well. He’s a god, for fuck’s sake. He is a being with power Izzy can barely comprehend. He has lived through ages, has watched civilisations rise and fall, and has helped decide their fate. And here he fucking is, reading a children’s book to a group of grown men and complaining to Edward when Izzy doesn’t join them.

It isn’t that Izzy cares about Stede’s reputation, but in disgracing his own position as a god, he taints the position for the entire pantheon. A small part of him tries to convince himself that it doesn’t really matter; after all, most of the crew do not know of Stede’s true nature. But he knows that that doesn’t mean much. This is still a dangerous thing. In the same way that it’s folly for humans to act as gods, the gods should not play at being humans, especially not in the way Stede is. It goes against every rule and order ingrained in the cosmos, and Izzy is just waiting for the moment that Stede causes everything to unravel.

In the meantime, he does his best to try and undo some of the damage Stede has caused to the men. He tries to turn them from soft-hearted idiots back into noble sailors. His main barrier comes from the resistance of the very men he tries to help.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Izzy barks out as he sees Lucius leaning against the railing, book and pen in hand despite Izzy ordering him to scrub the deck a few minutes ago.

“Sketching. See?” Lucius replies, turning the book to show Izzy a sketch of Black Pete up in the rigging, where he is currently meant to be checking the sails. Izzy still can’t shake the feeling that these calm waters are just a prelude for something, and he’s determined to be ready when the Kraken’s test comes. So he makes sure that the sails are checked regularly, and he’s desperately trying to get the crew into a position where he can trust them when the sea’s favor turns.

The drawing isn’t bad. Lucius’ ability to capture the island’s they’re passing through with just a few lines could even be admired. But that’s besides the point- Izzy had gave him an order and he is flagrantly ignoring it, not even doing Izzy the dignity for pretending to respect his authority. Normally Izzy would have flogged him for his insolence, but Stede, and later Edward, had given him a stern talking to about his behavior with the crew. And hadn’t that been a fun conversation, his god so close to him, Izzy pressed against the wall of the cabin, kept there by the Kraken’s stern gaze. It had been almost perfect, his god finally paying him attention after so long with eyes only for Stede, and then he started to admonish Izzy for shouting at the crew and the illusion that his god still cared about him had been shattered by Stede’s words falling from his lips.

Still, while it’s clear Edward no longer cares about his devotion, Izzy won’t stop paying it, so he has done his best to reign in his behavior with the crew, abandoning any overt punishments. But for a lot as soft as these, hard labor is itself a punishment.

“Mr. Spriggs, I need someone to scrape the barnacles off the side of the ship, and you seem like the perfect candidate,” Izzy says, trying to make his voice have the sickly sweet tone Edward sometimes uses. From the way Lucius raises one eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, he doesn’t succeed.

“No,” is all Lucius says, returning to sketching.

“That wasn’t a request, Mr. Spriggs, that was an order.” Izzy steps closer. “You clearly haven’t been on many ships, but out here, you only survive if everyone does their part and obeys the hierarchy. So when I ask you to scrape barnacles off the ship, please understand that I am asking you to do so because our fucking survival depends on it. So, don’t give me a bunch of fucking talk, just go and fucking do it.”

“Right. And on ships, this hierarchy, the Captain is higher than the First Mate?” Lucius asks, casual as ever.

“Yes,” Izzy bites out, too swept up in the anger raging in him, and tired of dealing with these idiots day and night to consider that Luicus is setting a trap for him.

“Well then, Captain Stede asked me to draw this for him, and continue to draw the places we come across. Create a catalog. So, I need to protect my hands, which means you need to find someone else to scrape barnacles off the side, First Mate Hands,” Lucius says, managing to make his title seem like an insult.

Izzy feels his throat going tight, breath coming in short bursts as his ears begin to roar. He takes the final steps to close the distance between them before he realizes what’s happening, hands just about to grab Lucius and dangle him over the edge when he pauses, feeling the weight of Edward’s gaze on him. His hands drop limply to his side as he looks up and sees Edward watching him, mouth a thin line, expression giving nothing away.

“Fuck off,” Izzy spits out before stalking away, as if that makes his defeat any less humiliating.

He doesn’t have to look back at Edward to know that he’s disappointed in Izzy’s inability to command the men. But, as much as it causes his heart to clench, it’s better to have his disappointment than flagrantly disobey him. They’re two terrible choices, but he feels like he made the better one. Ever since Edward started forcing him to bend the knee to Stede, he’s felt as if more and more he’s been forced to make those sorts of choices where all he does is lose.

Edward is suddenly in front of him and Izzy tenses, waiting for the punishment for failure he knows is coming. Edward grins at him, but Izzy knows more than to trust it, every muscle still tensed.