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Ahoy, mateys! I know that this is random but you (maybe?) know/figure out I am a huge Black Sails fan. I am perfectly aware that the show has come to an end like big time ago BUT the other day I found a few Max x Eleanor fanfics I wrote.
Iâm considering editing and posting them if anyone is interested/still somehow invested in the show/pairing (I know theyâre controversial but they are my absolute fave characters and heartbreaking romance). So far I only know one fan who might be in for that, good old friend @andi-the-catâ so thatâs why Iâm asking!
A couple of previews under the cut!
The silence was defeaning.
It was the first thing that Max noticed as she set foot in Miss Guthrieâs former office. The room that until a few days ago was filled with a costant chatting noise, the place where decisions were taken and deals sealed, were the most ferocious pirates gathered in front of Eleanor begging mercy or spitting curses was now as silent as a graveyard. âThe cunt is gone for good!â people cheered in the street and you could tell by how unually quiet the infamous office was. All was at its place as usual...except Eleanor now locked up in the hold of a Navy ship heading to England to face a trial for her many crimes.Â
Yet -Max thought, closing the door behind her- she was still here, somehow.
Her presence lingered there, like the spicy perfume she put on and intoxicated Max in the old days and nights. She was in the compass Flint once brought her from God knows where and was still sitting on her desk, on top of a stack of papers. The paintings portraying unknown  faraway landscapes that Eleanor somehow loved because "they remind me that there is a whole world out there, off these shores: a world I will never see probably, but still something to look for". Â
And Eleanor's chair. A memory hit Max as her eyes fell on it.
It was night and Eleanor exceptionally allowed her to come with her in her office since Max refused to part from her.
Max was buzzed that night: she had too much rhum trying to match Eleanor. As her Angel searched for some documents she had a look around: she had fantasized about that place so much, about being in that place with Eleanor that she couldnât resist the urge to make herself a bit comofortable.
"Hey Eleanor! How do I look?" Max posed as Eleanor sitting at her lover's desk, a playful smile on her lips.
Miss Guthrie turned and flashed a tired smile back to her.
"Like a real Queen of Thieves" she whispered conspiratorially before resuming her search.
Max lazily grazed the arms of the dark ebony chair.
"Who knows, maybe one day I will be the Queen of this place" she teased. "You should watch out, ma belle!"
She laughed, Eleanor did too but it was a grim laugh. She turned and walked to Max.
"I will, sweetheart. But I frankly I don't commend you"
"How come?" Max pouted.
Eleanor leaned closer, sighing, and Max noticed the signs of exhaustion at the light of the candles. When her Angel answered there was a hint of melancholy in her voice.
"Because I'm pretty sure that chair is cursed. It consumes you and forces you to do things you hate and regret sooner or later"
As the image of her past self pulling Eleanor vest and silencing her lover with a hard kiss, Max took a seat on that chair. 'Miss Guthrie's throne' as people call it. She sat there and it didn't seem cursed to her. She felt powerful now, like Eleanor certainly did once. There was no doubt though, that it had been fatal to her fallen Angel, but to Max it had to do with Eleanor, not with the role of Queen of Nassau. The curse she warned her about was her own curse, the curse that ran in her veins like a maladie. She blamed that chair for her own fall when she was just the one losing everything because of her stubbornness and foolish ambition. At least so Max thought.
--------------------
"I didn't think you liked corsets so much"
(Max) couldn't stand the see how Eleanor now played the role of this dignified societal lady that hardly said a word too busy pretending to enjoy sewing and sipping lukewarm tea with her stiffen maiden. Her hair were now impeccable, her fingers bare. Max could hardly recognise her: so little was left of the woman she fell for when she was younger. That Eleanor hated corsets, sewing and made fun of how the English were so inapt to need maidens âas if they couldnât even lace their shoes properly without helpâ. That Eleanor loved rings, she had tons. That Eleanor, her fallen angel disappeared in the winds when she set sails to England.
Eleanor looked at her before diverting her eyes. Then she pressed her lips together as she always did when she was troubled, and moved to the window.
"Do you think I like corsets?"
"You wear them every day: I should have got it all wrong. Please accept my apologies" Max noted, sure that her honeyed tone wouldn't trick Eleanor.
They didnâ t fool Eleanor, who gave a bitter laugh in full response.
"No need for sarcasm, Max. You know what I think of corsets and why I wear them: I lost everything, that -alas- includes my old clothes as well. They took the ones I had away from me in jail and I'm sure you didn't save the one I left her too"
That wasnât fully true but Eleanor was mostly right. It had been petty of her to make that comment and she knew it.
[.....]
"You're changed" Max confessed, in the end and after much internal debating.
Eleanor looked at her: Max was avoiding her gaze but surrendered. Her face twisted into a pout as she didnât want to let such confession out of her chest like that. No matter how much they hated each other, how distant they grew with time: wherever they gravitated around each other again they just knew as if they never forgot a secret code unknown to anyone else. And Max knew that Eleanor noticed the pained warmth mixed with anger and sorrow behind her words:Â âI still care, you see?â. Eleanor had always found her tendency to pout like a child extremely endearing. Miss Guthrieâs face softened for a moment before she turned grim again.Â
"You too"
Max was caught by surprise by those words.Â
âI always wore corsetsâ she protested to cloud the issue: now it was her who stubbornly gazed into the horizon refusing eye contact.
"True, maybe just less fancy than the ones you wear now. You have now what you dreamt once: nice dresses, a fancy room of your own, money in your pocket, Nassau at your feet yet you hardly seem happy or a queen, despite the throne you own. Look at you" she smiled grimly. "You have this little wrinkle right here, it wasnât there beforeâ
Without thinking, Eleanor raised her hand as if to graze with her slender fingers the spot but stopped almost immediately, reminiscing that she was not allowed to do so anymore. Max certainly wouldn't like that intimacy.
But Max noticed and her chest tightened. She couldnât decide wether she would have liked to feel Eleanorâs touch again: that woman always found a way to mess with her head. Judging by the conflicted expression on the former Queen of Thievesâ face, Max had the same effect on Eleanor.
âThatâs not a nice thing to say to a ladyâ Max laconically commented. âWe all have to age soone-â
âThatâs not what I meanâ Eleanor sighed, interrupting her.
When she spoke again, there was a hint of melancholy and nostalgia in her voice and eyes.
"You always saw the bright side of literally everything. You were so full of hope and naive enthusiasm. You were like...a little ray of sunshine in a stormy sky. I-I loved that: when you were around every trouble seemed bearable, temporary because of the light you casted. It was in your eyes, in your smile, your words, your-â Eleanor pressed her lips together, refraining from sharing such secrets in a world that could only blame their gestures of love so hurtful to reminisce. âNow that light has gone, Max. You canât sleep at night worrying when the next blow comes, you brood because some lazy insolent lads refuse to show you the respcet you deserve and that they would show to Featherstone or any other man. You spend so much time trying to make sense of British, pirates and any litle fights, you frown after every compromise you had to take to keep sitting on that chair. You find yourself picturing the worst scenarios and how to avoid them instead of dismissing them. Youâre...no longer the Max I met once tooâ
Hello! The deadline for submission to Possible Here is Sunday, February 18. Hooray! Here are some questions weâve been receiving. You can check out the call for submissions here. We canât wait to read your stuff!!!
Q: Do you accept art/ illustration?
A: We sure do! We welcome illustration if it has the same end goal as a personal and/or analytical essay, which is to say, making an argument or telling a new, non-fiction story. So illustration of a character or scene, while we love and support it, would not work for this zine, but a graphic personal essay would be great.
Q: Cool! My art is like that. What specs should it have?
A: PNG, 150dpi, RGB, please!
Q: Are there requirements for formatting for the written submissions?
A: Nope! Itâs a zine! We strongly believe zines should look dynamic and cobbled together from the thoughts of lots of different folks, so present your words however you feel like they should be presented!
Q: Iâm not a good enough writer though.
A: Please trust us when we say we really, really want to read your words, and we know that other people do, too.
Q: How long should my piece be?
A: Under 5,000 words.
Q: Aaah! I want to write a piece but cannot make that deadline. What should I do?
