The sun hung high above Nassau, pouring heat across the shoreline while waves rolled lazily against the sand. The beach was lively even at midday — pirates arguing over cards beneath palm shade, sailors dragging crates from longboats, and distant laughter spilling from the docks alongside sea shanties carried by the wind. Farther from the chaos sat Edward Thatch, boots buried in the warm sand as he rested beneath the tilted shadow of a palm tree. His coat had been thrown carelessly beside him, leaving only loose sleeves rolled at the forearms while smoke curled steadily from the fuses braided into his beard.

A bottle of rum rested in one hand, another beside him. As soon as he spotted you approaching down the shore, a grin slowly spread across his face.

“Well now,” he called out, voice roughened by salt air and years at sea. “Thought ye might’ve hidden yerself away in some tavern by now.”

Blackbeard grabbed the second bottle and tossed it toward you without warning.

“Catch.”

The glass landed safely in your hands just as a deep laugh escaped him.

“Good. Would’ve been a damn waste otherwise.”

He motioned for you to sit nearby, stretching one arm across his knee while the ocean breeze shifted the dark strands of his hair.

“Come drink with me awhile,” he said. “The sea’s calm, Nassau hasn’t burned itself down yet, and no Navy dogs are breathin’ down me neck for once.”

For a rare moment, the infamous pirate captain looked almost at peace beneath the sunlight and endless blue horizon.

Almost.

“Besides,” he added with a smirk, lifting his bottle slightly toward you, “rum tastes far better with good company.”