Chapter 11: Crown of Tides

Three days later, under a merciless noon sun, Edward Teach stood knee-deep in the crystal shallows of a hidden lagoon. After many days of sail he finally gazed upon the lair of the Crown of Tides.

Before him jutted the broken spires of an ancient temple, half-submerged. Coral and seaweed draped its ancient carved pillars. The lagoon itself was encircled by a ring of black volcanic rock, an atoll invisible until you were nearly upon it. Only the astrolabe had led them through the single narrow channel at low tide.

Behind Edward, the longboat rocked gently, tethered to a chunk of marble ruin. Jack and Israel Hands stood at his sides, weapons ready out of habit, though no enemy was in sight, only vibrant fish darting through the ruins and the distant roar of surf beyond the atoll.

The remaining crew waited on a strip of sandy bank nearby, tending a small fire and guarding their meager belongings. They’d taken a vote for Edward, Jack, and Hands to go ahead as representatives; too many people clambering into the fragile ruins might spell disaster.

Edward took a breath. The air smelled of salt and an indefinable sweetness, as if the very water was tinged with power. In his hand, the astrolabe runes glowed more steadily as they moved closer inward. The team finally came upon a domed shrine crusted with barnacles.

“There,” Edward said, pointing at the dome.

They waded carefully toward it. Small reef sharks skittered away at their approach. The water was warm and clear, gradually receding as the tide continued to withdraw. By the time they reached the base of the shrine, they stood on slick stone steps, the ocean only licking their ankles.

The shrine’s entrance was blocked by a fallen stone, but there was space to squeeze through a gap. Jack volunteered first, sliding into the dim interior with Edward right after, and Hands grumbling as he squeezed his broad shoulders through last.

Inside was a round chamber open to the sky in places where the dome had cracked. Sunbeams slanted in, illuminating a raised dais at the center. Upon that dais rested a stone pedestal, and atop the pedestal sat a coffer of intricately wrought gold and coral. It looked bizarrely untouched by time or sea, a glimmering prize awaiting them.

None of them spoke. They stepped forward as one. Edward’s heart pounded in his ears.

He climbed the dais slowly, boots scraping on ancient rock. Jack and Hands flanked the pedestal, each unconsciously holding their breath.

Edward reached out and pushed open the coffer’s lid. Hinges that had likely not moved in centuries groaned softly.

Within lay the Crown of Tides.

It was more beautiful than any treasure out of imagination and myth, a circlet of deep green metal like patinated copper, fashioned to resemble twisting kelp fronds. Pearls and strange glowing sea-glass studded it, and at its crest sat a fist-sized sapphire that shimmered with internal light. Water dripped from the crown as if it had just been pulled from the ocean’s depths.

For a long moment, none of them moved. This object, this was what had cost so many lives, what Hornigold had died for, and what ghosts had guarded in vain.

Jack whispered, “It’s… kind of small.” Perhaps she had expected something grander after all the blood and tears.

Israel Hands let out a shaky laugh at that. Edward felt a sudden urge to laugh too, hysterical relief, maybe. The crown was small. Portable. Almost humble, sitting in its box. And yet he could feel an aura emanating from it, a subtle tugging at his senses, like a distant song at the very edge of hearing.

He carefully lifted the crown with both hands. It was lighter than he anticipated, ice cool to the touch despite the sun’s heat. As he held it up, water trickled off its points and splashed back into the coffer.

Instantly, a visible pulse seemed to ripple through the lagoon. Jack gasped as tiny whirlpools swirled around the pedestal. Israel Hands muttered a quick curse under his breath.

Edward’s vision swam. For an instant, he was not in the temple, he was transported beneath the endless ocean, pressure crushing him. He saw a skeletal shipwreck on the seafloor, treasures strewn about it, and thousands of fish darting like wraiths. On a coral throne sat Captain Ashcombe, reaching out a bony hand toward him, as if asking for his crown back, 

“Edward!” Jack’s voice snapped him out of the trance. He stood, crown in hand, panting. The vision receded.

“Did you… see something?” he managed.

Jack shook her head. Hands looked equally confused.

He clenched the crown. The strange whispering at the edges of his mind quieted somewhat. “It tries to speak to me,” he realized aloud. 

“Then don’t listen,” Jack said firmly. She touched his arm. “Come back to us.”

Edward nodded, steadying himself. He wrapped the crown in a piece of canvas torn from a flag Jack had brought for the purpose of transport, and gently placed it back in the coffer. The sense of pressure eased as soon as the crown was out of sight.

Israel Hands exhaled deeply. “Well, Captain, that’s it then. We have it.”

Edward found he was trembling. Years, perhaps his whole life, leading to this moment, and now the artifact was in his possession. He thought he would feel triumphant. Instead, he felt a confusing swirl of joy, sorrow for the lost brothers, and apprehension.

“Aye,” Edward said softly. “We have it.”

They secured the coffer in a fishing net for carrying and carefully made their way out of the shrine. The tide had ebbed further, leaving much of the lagoon’s floor exposed as slick sand dotted with tidal pools. In the distance, the crew on the beach let up a cheer, having seen the three emerge with the golden chest.

Jack laughed under her breath, relief breaking through. For once, Israel Hands was grinning without reserve. Edward even managed a small smile. They began the short trek back to the others.

Halfway across the shallows, however, the tranquil scene shifted. The sun, bright moments ago, dimmed as if a cloud had swept over, yet the sky was clear. The water around their ankles suddenly chilled.

“Something’s not right,” Jack murmured, hand drifting to her pistol.

A shape broke the surface ahead, then another to the right. Human figures, rising up out of the ankle-deep water as though standing from a kneel. They were translucent blue, their forms rippling with waterweed: the ghosts, again.

Edward’s pulse jumped. Israel Hands cursed and nearly dropped his end of the chest.

But these ghosts made no move to attack. Edward recognized some, Lafitte the commodore, his eyes downcast, and behind him others of the ghost fleet. They stood in silence, waist-deep in phantom water that was not physically there, surrounding the trio.

From their ranks, Captain Ashcombe emerged. His ghost bore a placid expression. Edward noticed the gaping wounds on the ghosts were gone; they looked whole, peaceful.

Ashcombe inclined his head. “You have done what so many could not before you. The crown is yours.”

Edward tightened his grip on the coffer. “Then why are you here?”

Ashcombe’s gaze drifted to the wrapped crown. “To say farewell. With the crown removed from its resting place, our duty is finished. The curse that bound us lifts.”

As one, the assembled ghosts nodded. Some smiled, faces alight with long-forgotten joy. Edward realized this was not an attack, this was a final salute.

He set down the prize gently and stood upright. Jack and Israel followed his lead, shoulders squared. They were receiving an honor guard.

Ashcombe brought his fist to his chest in a gesture of respect. “Carry it wisely, Edward Teach. May you steer clear of the fate that befell us.”

Lafitte stepped forward, no hatred in his eyes now, only gratitude. “Merci,” he whispered, doffing his feathered hat.

Before Edward could respond, the ghostly sailors began to dissipate one by one, dissolving into eddies of sea breeze and mist. Last to fade was Ashcombe, who gave Edward the barest hint of a smile as he vanished into sparkling motes that drifted skyward.

The sun grew bright again, the unnatural chill evaporating. 

Jack let out a breath she’d been holding. “They’re free…”

Edward wiped a dampness from his eyes he hadn’t realized was there. “Hornigold would have loved to see that,” he said quietly.

Israel Hands put a rough hand on Edward’s shoulder. “He’d be proud, Captain.”

Edward drew in a shaky breath and nodded. “Let’s go home,” he said, lifting the coffer once more.

A ragged cheer steadily grew as they reached the shore and held the mighty prize aloft for all to see. The crew crowded around, gazing at the golden coffer with awe. Many faces were streaked with tears, of happiness, of relief, of remembrance of those who weren’t here to share it.

On the sand, Edward set the treasure down and opened it. He unwrapped the Crown of Tides and, after a heartbeat’s hesitation, held it high in both hands, its sapphire catching the sunlight in dazzling azure beams.

All around him erupted in celebratory whoops and embraces. For this moment, all their pain and loss crystallized into something like triumph. They had done it. Against all probability and fate, they had won.

Edward brought the crown down and looked into its facets. Deep within the sapphire, he thought he saw a flicker of movement, like a wave crashing on a distant shore. A whisper tickled his mind again: power…king…storm…

Not now. Gently, he set the crown back in its chest and closed the lid. He fastened it shut with a rusted clasp and turned to his people.

“Blackbeard!” someone shouted, using the nickname that had begun to circulate among them since Hornigold’s death, half in jest, half in recognition of the fearlessness Edward had shown. Others took it up in a chant: “Blackbeard! Blackbeard!”

Edward flushed, unaccustomed to adulation, lifted a hand to calm them. “Easy! We’re not safe yet, gents.” He gestured to their humble boat and scant supplies. “We still have to get this treasure someplace civilized, and ourselves with it.”

A ripple of laughter answered, a light, hopeful sound. They all knew the journey was far from over, but after what they’d survived, what was a little more ocean?

Jack stepped close to Edward, leaning in to whisper softly into his ear, “Where to now, Captain Blackbeard?” 

Edward looked out beyond the lagoon’s rim. In the distance, the endless sea glittered, full of possibility and peril. They could attempt to reach Nassau, or another port, perhaps strike a bargain with some merchant vessel. With the crown, any ruler or order of monks might pay a king’s ransom, but that was a decision for another day.

“Home,” he answered softly, thinking of the closest thing they had to one. “We head for Nassau.”

Jack nodded, smiling. Home for her was not a place, he realized, it was these people. It was him.

As the crew prepared the boat and shared out water and food for the voyage, Edward took a final moment alone. He walked to the water’s edge, waves lapping at his boots.

From his coat he drew Hornigold’s battered compass, an old battered token well loved and clear that the old captain had used for many years. He had retrieved it from the wreckage of the longboat. Edward opened it; the needle bobbed lazily north.

He whispered toward the horizon, “We made it, Captain. I’ll take it from here.”

A gentle breeze ruffled his black hair and tugged at the brim of Hornigold’s snug hat on his head. It felt, somehow, like a benediction.

Edward closed Hornigold's compass and turned back to his crew, his family, awaiting his command. The Crown of Tides was theirs now, for better or for worse, and with it a legend had been born out of their deeds.

“Blackbeard!” Israel Hands called. “All set to sail, Captain.”

Edward set his jaw and allowed a small grin to curve beneath his salt-crusted bushy beard. It felt right to hear the name on their lips now, a name forged in hardship and fire.

“Right then,” he called back, striding toward them. “Let’s sail for home.”

With a cheer, the survivors of the Ranger pushed their boat off the sand and into the blue. The tale of the Crown of Tides, and of Blackbeard’s baptism in a sea of shadows, would pass into legend. But for Edward Teach and his crew, it was simply the story of family, of sacrifice, and of the dawn that follows even the darkest of nights.