Black Sails fic: Faith and Fakery
Aug. 8th, 2016 02:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
meridian_roseTitle: Faith and Fakery
Fandom: Black Sails
Pairing/Characters: John Silver, James Flint, Miranda Barlow
Rating: PG-13 (but Silver is a potty mouth)
Word Count: 3800 approx
Prompt: For the![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
trope_bingo prompt "healers" (wildcard), the hc_bingo prompt "AU: alternate professions" and the dark bingo prompt "abduction/kidnapping"
Summary: AU; In the early 1900's, charismatic faith healer John Silver fakes cures in exchange for admiration and generous donations. Then Flint kidnaps Silver, desperate for his help and threatening vengeance if it is not forthcoming, and Silver finds himself trapped between his own lack of faith and need for a miracle.
Content Notes: No standard warnings apply.
Also @ AO3
Silver raised his eyes to the creased canvas which was blowing gently in the breeze. He held out his hands, palms upward.
"I beseech you, oh Lord," he said, and the wind was picking up outside the tent now. "To let I, your humble servant, be the instrument of your divine love." He waited a beat, readying the next sentence but there was no need for a sudden gust of wind made the sides of the tent flap in and out.
Silver lowered his head and his hands, basking in the awe of the crowd. He'd been doing this for a while now and there was no weather phenomenon he could not incorporate into his act. The rain coming down harder or stopping, a cloud crossing the sun, a roll of thunder; he was a showman and a showman knew that theatre was about the setting and the audience as much as it was about him. It tied in with rule one, never believe your own bullshit.
"May I be worthy of your grace," Silver intoned. He gestured to the second row back, where his audience plant, swathed in a large coat and wearing a false beard, was sitting hunched over on a battered chair. "Who here is ready to open their hearts and be healed?"
The man got to his feet, unsteady, moving as if his joints were painful. The miracle cure would see him straighten up and literally jump for joy. It was a well rehearsed part of the act and Silver waited patiently for the man to limp toward him, an expression of concerned benevolence on his face.
They'd done well the previous two nights, with Silver "curing" his assistant's blindness the first night and a fever the next. Given the crowd that had gathered for this performance, they'd do even better. Still, no matter how much money went into the pot, Silver would leave tonight. It didn't do to hang around too long in one place lest someone discover his tricks; rule two, never outstay your welcome.
The entrance flaps were thrust aside, startling the assembled company. A man with a ginger ponytail strode in, followed by two fierce looking men. One was tall, pale, with cropped hair and a sleeveless shirt despite the chilly air. The other was dark-skinned with a necklace made of shark teeth and a gap toothed smile.
Shit. Shit, shit, fucking shit. Silver made an almost imperceptible gesture to his assistant to stay where he was. Giving a wide smile and showing his dazzling teeth, Silver focussed on the newcomers.
"Welcome, gentleman," he said. "All who seek healing and salvation are welcome here."
The ginger haired man, dressed better than his companions, and wearing a greatcoat with expensive buttons, eyed Silver with suspicion. "You are John Silver, healer of the sick, worker of miracles?"
"Blessed instrument of the Lord and comforter of the afflicted," Silver agreed. It was on his caravan, all those self-appointed titles painted with care. It always paid to keep mentioning God; those supposedly working magic without the Lord's help could be mistaken for witches, and besides, if someone refused to get better it wasn't Silver's fault but God's. If God didn't want the afflicted to be healed that was His business, and the victim could take it up with Him.
"I need you to come with me," the man said. His two companions were hovering behind him, arms crossed. Knives sat at their hips, and shit, Silver spotted the glint of a gun beneath their leader's coat.
It did not fill Silver with confidence that the man sounded sceptical at best about Silver's talents.
"There are many here who need my help," Silver said, gesturing to the audience. Rule three, if in doubt, stall. If he could continue with the show, maybe he could slip out later and avoid the newcomer.
"It was not a request. I will wait ten minutes," the man said, moving to take a front row seat. "Then you will come with me, and prove you are the healer you say you are."
Silver flashed another smile. "I am only the instrument of God. He heals, not I," he said.
"Then you had better be a bloody good instrument," the man returned.
Silver swallowed. He gestured once more to his assistant. "Come forward my child, and receive God's mercy."
The man stumbled forward obediently. Silver placed one hand on the man's head and the other over his heart. "Do you accept God into your heart?"
"I do."
"Do you renounce Satan?"
"I do."
"Then let God heal you," Silver said, his tone increasing in volume. "Lord, I beseech you, let your power flow through me and heal your child!"
The man slumped against Silver, who held him close, murmuring words of solace. "Stand," Silver said at last, "Stand tall and without pain."
The man straightened up slowly, reacting with surprise that he could do so free from pain. His lower lip trembled. A gasp went around the tent. He took a few steps around the tent, hesitant at first, and then with vigour. "It is a miracle," he shouted, falling to his knees. "Praise the Lord!"
"Praise the Lord," the audience repeated, some getting to their feet and applauding. "Praise the Lord!"
Silver glanced over at the ginger haired man who was watching with more impatience than enthusiasm. Time to cut things short.
Silver moved to his own chair near the centre of the "stage" the clear grassy area devoid of chairs. He'd had a temporary stage made of wood once, but someone had fallen off it and sprained their wrist and injuring patrons did not make for repeat business. So now he kept it simple, the plain tent, the chairs, a table with a candle and a Bible on it. He made that simplicity a selling point, decried the need for ornamentation. All of his coin went towards the cost of travelling country and anything left over to the Church as alms for the poor, or so he made out.
He sat down and pressed his fingers to his temple. "Thank you," he said, letting his voice tremble. "Thank you all for coming and for your faith. God can work miracles but I am only a mortal and I am exhausted. I can do no more today." The crowd made their disappointment heard but Silver shook his head. "Please, go now, and tell all you meet that you have seen God's grace with your own eyes. And if you feel moved to help me continue this holy endeavour, there are collection plates at the door."
The ticket sales would probably outstrip the donations on this occasion, given the shortness of the performance. Silver would have words later with the boy who was supposed to stop people entering without paying, and certainly not allow people to disrupt the show once it had started.
People reluctantly began to leave, talking about the show, complaining about the show, expressing awe and wonder and disappointment in equal measures. Silver was gratified to hear coins hitting each other as some made extra donations as they left.
There was a rear exit to the tent, but Silver didn't think he could make it without being caught, and he would only run if he had a decent chance of getting away. Only guilty people ran and it was never a good idea to make yourself look guilty.
The ginger haired newcomer strode over. "Quite the show."
"I am merely –"
"Yes, I heard all that," he said. "Instrument of the divine."
"And it is a great blessing but it puts me under quite a strain," Silver said. "If you will excuse me, I need to go and lie down."
The man shook his head. "You're not leaving my sight. My name is Flint and if you can truly work miracles, I am willing to reward you handsomely for your services."
Silver perked up a bit at that. He'd been worried that Flint had come to expose him, but if he wanted a private performance that would be fine.
"Of course if you fail," Flint said, "I will conclude that you are a fraud and I will have to kill you for your blasphemy."
Silver felt the blood drain from his face. He shook off a genuine moment of dizziness. "You must understand that it is God who heals, not I. I can lay my hands on an afflicted person and I can beseech God to let his power work through me, but if God has sent an affliction for a reason then His will must prevail."
Flint gave a wicked grin. His companions had stalked around the sides of the stage and were now either side of Silver. Silver's assistant had disappeared with the crowd, discarded his disguise, and had now returned to help the ticket boy gather up the collection plates and make ready to leave. If they left without him, Silver would hunt them down and show them what vengeance looked like.
"If God does not listen to you," Flint said, "you will be seeing him very shortly. So you had better hope he likes his divine instrument living on Earth rather than in heaven. You will come with me and you will work a miracle or I will put you in the ground."
Silver fought nausea. "If you kill me, God will punish you."
Flint scoffed. "I'm willing to take that chance. Bring him." He snapped his fingers and his men dragged Silver to his feet.
*
The carriage ride was bumpy and uncomfortable, Silver made a few attempts to start a conversation and discover more about where they were going, who Flint was, what he wanted, but received only terse answers ("You'll see", "I own a ship", "Your skills") and at last even Silver gave in and sat in unaccustomed silence. Flint stared out of the window. His two men sat one either side of Silver so there was no chance of escaping, even if he'd a mind to throw himself from the moving vehicle.
After about an hour they pulled up outside a charming cottage set amongst a well tended garden. Silver could smell lavender, mint, and roses as he stepped out of the carriage.
Flint led the way along the path, Silver behind him, the two silent men following them both. To Silver's relief, Flint said, "Wait out here," and the guards took up positions at the door. Perhaps Silver could escape through the rear door, assuming there was one.
"Inside," Flint said, gesturing, and Silver stepped into the cottage. It was clean and uncluttered at first glance. A small entranceway led to a living area on one side and a small dining room the other, with what looked to the kitchen ahead behind a half-closed door, and what had to be a bedroom in one corner with the door closed.
Silver paused at the narrow table in the entranceway, checked his hair in the mirror, adjusted his ponytail slightly. Flint noticed, scoffed, but Silver paid him no mind. Appearance was everything, though whether that was tidy or dishevelled depended on circumstances. Right now professional seemed most appropriate.
"So," Silver said, when Flint gave no further instruction. He let the word hang in the air and Flint swallowed hard.
He pushed past Silver and headed for the bedroom. He hesitated, hand on the doorknob. "You will conduct yourself with decorum."
"Decorum is my middle name."
That earned him a glare and Silver strived to look contrite.
Flint knocked softly and opened the door. "Miranda. I brought him. The healer."
Silver glanced over his shoulder with longing, debating if he was fast enough to slip past the guards and make a run for it. Probably not, and he had no idea where he was or how he'd get back to his tent. So he squared his shoulders and followed Flint into the room.
The woman occupying the bed, pale and thin, gave a weak smile. "Please excuse me for not getting up."
Silver bowed. "No apology necessary," he said.
"This is John Silver," Flint said. "Silver, this is Miranda Barlow. My – my dear friend."
Silver inferred a lot from that hesitation and word choice. "What afflicts you, my child?" he asked, falling into his clerical role.
"Opinions vary," she said, wheezing slightly. "One doctor said tuberculosis, another thought it asthma, another was sure it was cancer. None of them have agreed on a diagnosis or a treatment and nothing has helped."
Silver's heart sank. He was a fraud but he was not, in his own opinion, a truly bad person. He used his assistant to affect cures and chose audience members who he thought looked eager to be helped; it was astonishing what the power of suggestion, the placebo effect, could accomplish. A kind word of encouragement could be life changing.
But if he came across a hopeful volunteer who appeared to have a treatable disease and had not seen a doctor, Silver would raise his eyes to the canvas, cup his ear.
"God has spoken to me," he would announce in a hushed whisper and the audience would listen with rapt attention. "He says this ailment is of solely earthly origin and should be cured by earthly means. Seek a physician – you will know the right man when you see him, my child. This man too is an instrument of the divine and it is God's will that he will heal you!"
It let Silver sleep soundly at night that he'd never contributed to a death by turning someone away from a mundane cure.
Here though, that did not apply. This was his least favourite sort of case, the desperate patient who had tried everything else. He would bless them of course, he would talk of God's plan and Heaven, he would hope for a true miracle for them, but there was nothing more to be done.
And this time he had Flint threatening violence if a miracle was not forthcoming.
"She's lost weight," Flint said and there was only grief in his voice now. "She is weak and tired and in constant pain. She struggles to breathe and her heart beats erratically sometimes. She is confined to bed almost constantly. Sometimes I carry her outside so she can sit in a chair and admire her garden."
"The scent of the roses lifts my spirits," Miranda agreed. "Though I am too weak even for that now." Her hand moved across the covers, thin and frail. Flint took it, bent over to kiss her knuckles. It was a gesture that spoke of a deeper intimacy and Silver felt like a voyeur to see it.
Flint released her and turned to Silver, his eyes hardening again. "You will heal her."
"James!" The sharp exclamation began a coughing fit and it was a moment before Miranda could continue, while Flint's concern had him kneeling at her bedside.
"Water," Miranda said when she managed to catch her breath and Flint left the room, dashing off to the kitchen.
Silver again weighed up his options and found them all wanting.
"You must excuse him," Miranda said. "He is desperate. For myself I am coming to terms with my mortality, though he cannot. And while I believe in God, I do not believe some travelling salesman can bring me healing where a doctor or a priest cannot."
Silver warmed to her immediately. She was still pretty, despite the ravages of the mysterious ailment, practical and decent, and a woman who brought out the humanity in the presumably powerful and dangerous Flint. "God works in mysterious ways," he offered, unwilling to drop his charade without a better plan in place.
She gave a wan smile. Flint returned with a glass of water and fussed over Miranda as she took it and sipped at the cool liquid.
"Do you require anything for the ritual?" Flint asked Silver.
Rum, Silver thought, but didn't say. Half a bottle or so would help matters along right now.
"It's not a ritual," he said, because again, potentially being accused of witchcraft even in this relatively enlightened era was not on his to do list. "I merely require silence and belief."
Silver closed his eyes. For the first time in over a year he began truly praying. Dear Lord, I know I've been a bit of a rogue but I really have helped people you know, and I don't want to die here, you don't want my death on this dear woman's conscience do you?
He opened his eyes and went to crouch at Miranda's side. Flint watched him, hawk like, from the opposite side of the bed. Silver took Miranda's hand in one of his, and placed the other on her head.
"Dear Lord," Silver intoned and he meant it, for his sake, for Miranda's, even for Flint's at this point now he'd seen the agony in Flint's eyes. "I beseech thee…"
Afterwards he couldn't be sure what he'd said. The words came unbidden and fell from his lips without conscious volition. He only came back to himself when he said, "Amen" and realised there were tears running down his cheeks and he was exhausted.
"Amen," Flint repeated and his own eyes were damp.
Miranda was silent, eyes closed, and for a second Silver feared that she'd gone. Not cured but free from pain at least. Yet to his relief he saw her chest rise and fall. Was it is his imagination, or was there a touch of colour in her grey cheeks?
Silver straightened up and stepped away, almost falling as the room tilted. He braced himself against the wall and then Flint came and took his arm, guided him to the living room and a comfy chair.
It was a little like being drunk, a little like being on a storm tossed ship. Silver blinked rapidly, tried to regain his equilibrium. A china cup was pressed into his hands and the smell of tea tickled his nostrils. Grateful for the grounding of the warmth against his palms, Silver sipped at the tea and felt the dizziness pass.
Flint took the chair opposite, his own cup held on his knee, untouched.
"I have done what I can," Silver said at last. He finished the tea. The delicate cup wasn't much of a weapon but he clutched at it anyway, afraid of Flint and what he might do next.
"I know." Flint stared at him as if he was seeing into Silver's soul. "I think you're a fake. All faith healers, in fact."
Silver lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Then why bring me here?"
"Because I am desperate enough to consider even the impossible. I have to know I have tried everything to save her."
Silver ran through all the things he might say, from words of comfort to clever attempts at manipulation, but nothing seemed appropriate.
"And because I have, on occasion, been known to be wrong in my assumptions," Flint added. "What I witnessed in there…what I felt…"
It had lacked his usual showmanship and yet it had been the most real act Silver had ever participated in. He wanted to brush it off as the power of suggestion. They were all longing for a miracle, needing to believe in it, and the power of placebo could not be underestimated.
Yet he couldn't fully believe that. He'd caught a glimpse of something otherworldly and things would never be the same. He lifted the cup to his lips, found it empty.
"More tea?" Flint asked, casual as any good host would be.
Silver nodded and let Flint take his precious not-actually-a-weapon from him. He lay back in the chair and took slow, deep breaths to calm himself, let his eyes close.
*
Silver sat up, startled. It was dark, the only light from a lantern on a coffee table. Flint was nowhere to be seen. Silver stood, padded towards the kitchen. Back door, or try the drawers and get a knife, yes find a weapon and an escape route –
"You're awake."
Silver nearly jumped out of his skin. He clasped his chest and turned to see Flint hovering at the bedroom door.
Flint nodded his head. "She's doing better. Come and see."
Silver obeyed. Miranda was sitting up in bed and despite the forgiving candlelight Silver truly thought her skin was rosier, the shadows beneath her eyes faded somewhat. She reached out a hand and Silver clasped it.
"Thank you," she said. "If this lasts only a day, it is a gift beyond measure. To breathe easily and be free of pain. I shall sit in the garden tomorrow and enjoy the sun on my skin and the scent of the roses and be content."
Silver nodded. "I am only an instrument of the Divine," he said, and the words had an edge to them that they previously lacked. Rule one, never believe your own bullshit – but what if it wasn't as much bull as you thought?
Flint smiled at Miranda and then gestured to Silver. They went to the dining room and Flint pulled open a drawer from the sideboard and took out a leather bag. He passed it to Silver. "Your payment."
"Just let me go free," Silver said, and turning down money was not anything he ever did, yet somehow it felt right to turn it down.
"I keep my promises," Flint said. "You will be returned to your people and you will take those funds for your holy endeavours."
Silver clutched at the leather. Some of this was truly going to find its way into church coffers this time. "Thank you."
"Thank you." Flint held out his hand and Silver shook it. "Perhaps we will meet again."
"God willing," Silver said, out of habit.
Flint escorted him out to the carriage and, unguarded this time, Silver was sent on his way.
The journey back gave him time to consider. He couldn't be sure what had happened, or how long Miranda would live, but something had occurred in that house. This scam was over, he decided. It had become too real. He'd broken rule one and continuing with the act would be in violation of rule two.
What next then? He'd attempted to take work as a cook once but had been fired within the day. Carpentry was not his strong suit. Fishing, maybe? Silver toyed with the idea of a small vessel – a trading vessel? Less smelly than fish or crab, and a chance to explore more of the world.
He thought he would know what to do when he saw a sign and that's when he knew he was lost, believing in his own bullshit, believing in faith or fate.
Yet after he'd paid off his crew, sold the tent, and made a sizeable donation to a nearby church, John Silver ambled down to the docks, laid eyes on the Miracle of Faith, and knew he'd found his next adventure.
It's an odd choice for my first foray into the Black Sails fandom, I admit. I was watching "Houdini and Doyle" in which an episode featured a questionable faith healer and that inspired this AU with silver tongued conman John Silver, who is sometimes as surprised by his own influence as his canon counterpart. S2 of Black Sails captured my imagination more than S1, so here I am finally writing fic, and there may be more in the future :)
Promo post at Tumblr
Fandom: Black Sails
Pairing/Characters: John Silver, James Flint, Miranda Barlow
Rating: PG-13 (but Silver is a potty mouth)
Word Count: 3800 approx
Prompt: For the
trope_bingo prompt "healers" (wildcard), the hc_bingo prompt "AU: alternate professions" and the dark bingo prompt "abduction/kidnapping"Summary: AU; In the early 1900's, charismatic faith healer John Silver fakes cures in exchange for admiration and generous donations. Then Flint kidnaps Silver, desperate for his help and threatening vengeance if it is not forthcoming, and Silver finds himself trapped between his own lack of faith and need for a miracle.
Content Notes: No standard warnings apply.
Also @ AO3
Silver raised his eyes to the creased canvas which was blowing gently in the breeze. He held out his hands, palms upward.
"I beseech you, oh Lord," he said, and the wind was picking up outside the tent now. "To let I, your humble servant, be the instrument of your divine love." He waited a beat, readying the next sentence but there was no need for a sudden gust of wind made the sides of the tent flap in and out.
Silver lowered his head and his hands, basking in the awe of the crowd. He'd been doing this for a while now and there was no weather phenomenon he could not incorporate into his act. The rain coming down harder or stopping, a cloud crossing the sun, a roll of thunder; he was a showman and a showman knew that theatre was about the setting and the audience as much as it was about him. It tied in with rule one, never believe your own bullshit.
"May I be worthy of your grace," Silver intoned. He gestured to the second row back, where his audience plant, swathed in a large coat and wearing a false beard, was sitting hunched over on a battered chair. "Who here is ready to open their hearts and be healed?"
The man got to his feet, unsteady, moving as if his joints were painful. The miracle cure would see him straighten up and literally jump for joy. It was a well rehearsed part of the act and Silver waited patiently for the man to limp toward him, an expression of concerned benevolence on his face.
They'd done well the previous two nights, with Silver "curing" his assistant's blindness the first night and a fever the next. Given the crowd that had gathered for this performance, they'd do even better. Still, no matter how much money went into the pot, Silver would leave tonight. It didn't do to hang around too long in one place lest someone discover his tricks; rule two, never outstay your welcome.
The entrance flaps were thrust aside, startling the assembled company. A man with a ginger ponytail strode in, followed by two fierce looking men. One was tall, pale, with cropped hair and a sleeveless shirt despite the chilly air. The other was dark-skinned with a necklace made of shark teeth and a gap toothed smile.
Shit. Shit, shit, fucking shit. Silver made an almost imperceptible gesture to his assistant to stay where he was. Giving a wide smile and showing his dazzling teeth, Silver focussed on the newcomers.
"Welcome, gentleman," he said. "All who seek healing and salvation are welcome here."
The ginger haired man, dressed better than his companions, and wearing a greatcoat with expensive buttons, eyed Silver with suspicion. "You are John Silver, healer of the sick, worker of miracles?"
"Blessed instrument of the Lord and comforter of the afflicted," Silver agreed. It was on his caravan, all those self-appointed titles painted with care. It always paid to keep mentioning God; those supposedly working magic without the Lord's help could be mistaken for witches, and besides, if someone refused to get better it wasn't Silver's fault but God's. If God didn't want the afflicted to be healed that was His business, and the victim could take it up with Him.
"I need you to come with me," the man said. His two companions were hovering behind him, arms crossed. Knives sat at their hips, and shit, Silver spotted the glint of a gun beneath their leader's coat.
It did not fill Silver with confidence that the man sounded sceptical at best about Silver's talents.
"There are many here who need my help," Silver said, gesturing to the audience. Rule three, if in doubt, stall. If he could continue with the show, maybe he could slip out later and avoid the newcomer.
"It was not a request. I will wait ten minutes," the man said, moving to take a front row seat. "Then you will come with me, and prove you are the healer you say you are."
Silver flashed another smile. "I am only the instrument of God. He heals, not I," he said.
"Then you had better be a bloody good instrument," the man returned.
Silver swallowed. He gestured once more to his assistant. "Come forward my child, and receive God's mercy."
The man stumbled forward obediently. Silver placed one hand on the man's head and the other over his heart. "Do you accept God into your heart?"
"I do."
"Do you renounce Satan?"
"I do."
"Then let God heal you," Silver said, his tone increasing in volume. "Lord, I beseech you, let your power flow through me and heal your child!"
The man slumped against Silver, who held him close, murmuring words of solace. "Stand," Silver said at last, "Stand tall and without pain."
The man straightened up slowly, reacting with surprise that he could do so free from pain. His lower lip trembled. A gasp went around the tent. He took a few steps around the tent, hesitant at first, and then with vigour. "It is a miracle," he shouted, falling to his knees. "Praise the Lord!"
"Praise the Lord," the audience repeated, some getting to their feet and applauding. "Praise the Lord!"
Silver glanced over at the ginger haired man who was watching with more impatience than enthusiasm. Time to cut things short.
Silver moved to his own chair near the centre of the "stage" the clear grassy area devoid of chairs. He'd had a temporary stage made of wood once, but someone had fallen off it and sprained their wrist and injuring patrons did not make for repeat business. So now he kept it simple, the plain tent, the chairs, a table with a candle and a Bible on it. He made that simplicity a selling point, decried the need for ornamentation. All of his coin went towards the cost of travelling country and anything left over to the Church as alms for the poor, or so he made out.
He sat down and pressed his fingers to his temple. "Thank you," he said, letting his voice tremble. "Thank you all for coming and for your faith. God can work miracles but I am only a mortal and I am exhausted. I can do no more today." The crowd made their disappointment heard but Silver shook his head. "Please, go now, and tell all you meet that you have seen God's grace with your own eyes. And if you feel moved to help me continue this holy endeavour, there are collection plates at the door."
The ticket sales would probably outstrip the donations on this occasion, given the shortness of the performance. Silver would have words later with the boy who was supposed to stop people entering without paying, and certainly not allow people to disrupt the show once it had started.
People reluctantly began to leave, talking about the show, complaining about the show, expressing awe and wonder and disappointment in equal measures. Silver was gratified to hear coins hitting each other as some made extra donations as they left.
There was a rear exit to the tent, but Silver didn't think he could make it without being caught, and he would only run if he had a decent chance of getting away. Only guilty people ran and it was never a good idea to make yourself look guilty.
The ginger haired newcomer strode over. "Quite the show."
"I am merely –"
"Yes, I heard all that," he said. "Instrument of the divine."
"And it is a great blessing but it puts me under quite a strain," Silver said. "If you will excuse me, I need to go and lie down."
The man shook his head. "You're not leaving my sight. My name is Flint and if you can truly work miracles, I am willing to reward you handsomely for your services."
Silver perked up a bit at that. He'd been worried that Flint had come to expose him, but if he wanted a private performance that would be fine.
"Of course if you fail," Flint said, "I will conclude that you are a fraud and I will have to kill you for your blasphemy."
Silver felt the blood drain from his face. He shook off a genuine moment of dizziness. "You must understand that it is God who heals, not I. I can lay my hands on an afflicted person and I can beseech God to let his power work through me, but if God has sent an affliction for a reason then His will must prevail."
Flint gave a wicked grin. His companions had stalked around the sides of the stage and were now either side of Silver. Silver's assistant had disappeared with the crowd, discarded his disguise, and had now returned to help the ticket boy gather up the collection plates and make ready to leave. If they left without him, Silver would hunt them down and show them what vengeance looked like.
"If God does not listen to you," Flint said, "you will be seeing him very shortly. So you had better hope he likes his divine instrument living on Earth rather than in heaven. You will come with me and you will work a miracle or I will put you in the ground."
Silver fought nausea. "If you kill me, God will punish you."
Flint scoffed. "I'm willing to take that chance. Bring him." He snapped his fingers and his men dragged Silver to his feet.
The carriage ride was bumpy and uncomfortable, Silver made a few attempts to start a conversation and discover more about where they were going, who Flint was, what he wanted, but received only terse answers ("You'll see", "I own a ship", "Your skills") and at last even Silver gave in and sat in unaccustomed silence. Flint stared out of the window. His two men sat one either side of Silver so there was no chance of escaping, even if he'd a mind to throw himself from the moving vehicle.
After about an hour they pulled up outside a charming cottage set amongst a well tended garden. Silver could smell lavender, mint, and roses as he stepped out of the carriage.
Flint led the way along the path, Silver behind him, the two silent men following them both. To Silver's relief, Flint said, "Wait out here," and the guards took up positions at the door. Perhaps Silver could escape through the rear door, assuming there was one.
"Inside," Flint said, gesturing, and Silver stepped into the cottage. It was clean and uncluttered at first glance. A small entranceway led to a living area on one side and a small dining room the other, with what looked to the kitchen ahead behind a half-closed door, and what had to be a bedroom in one corner with the door closed.
Silver paused at the narrow table in the entranceway, checked his hair in the mirror, adjusted his ponytail slightly. Flint noticed, scoffed, but Silver paid him no mind. Appearance was everything, though whether that was tidy or dishevelled depended on circumstances. Right now professional seemed most appropriate.
"So," Silver said, when Flint gave no further instruction. He let the word hang in the air and Flint swallowed hard.
He pushed past Silver and headed for the bedroom. He hesitated, hand on the doorknob. "You will conduct yourself with decorum."
"Decorum is my middle name."
That earned him a glare and Silver strived to look contrite.
Flint knocked softly and opened the door. "Miranda. I brought him. The healer."
Silver glanced over his shoulder with longing, debating if he was fast enough to slip past the guards and make a run for it. Probably not, and he had no idea where he was or how he'd get back to his tent. So he squared his shoulders and followed Flint into the room.
The woman occupying the bed, pale and thin, gave a weak smile. "Please excuse me for not getting up."
Silver bowed. "No apology necessary," he said.
"This is John Silver," Flint said. "Silver, this is Miranda Barlow. My – my dear friend."
Silver inferred a lot from that hesitation and word choice. "What afflicts you, my child?" he asked, falling into his clerical role.
"Opinions vary," she said, wheezing slightly. "One doctor said tuberculosis, another thought it asthma, another was sure it was cancer. None of them have agreed on a diagnosis or a treatment and nothing has helped."
Silver's heart sank. He was a fraud but he was not, in his own opinion, a truly bad person. He used his assistant to affect cures and chose audience members who he thought looked eager to be helped; it was astonishing what the power of suggestion, the placebo effect, could accomplish. A kind word of encouragement could be life changing.
But if he came across a hopeful volunteer who appeared to have a treatable disease and had not seen a doctor, Silver would raise his eyes to the canvas, cup his ear.
"God has spoken to me," he would announce in a hushed whisper and the audience would listen with rapt attention. "He says this ailment is of solely earthly origin and should be cured by earthly means. Seek a physician – you will know the right man when you see him, my child. This man too is an instrument of the divine and it is God's will that he will heal you!"
It let Silver sleep soundly at night that he'd never contributed to a death by turning someone away from a mundane cure.
Here though, that did not apply. This was his least favourite sort of case, the desperate patient who had tried everything else. He would bless them of course, he would talk of God's plan and Heaven, he would hope for a true miracle for them, but there was nothing more to be done.
And this time he had Flint threatening violence if a miracle was not forthcoming.
"She's lost weight," Flint said and there was only grief in his voice now. "She is weak and tired and in constant pain. She struggles to breathe and her heart beats erratically sometimes. She is confined to bed almost constantly. Sometimes I carry her outside so she can sit in a chair and admire her garden."
"The scent of the roses lifts my spirits," Miranda agreed. "Though I am too weak even for that now." Her hand moved across the covers, thin and frail. Flint took it, bent over to kiss her knuckles. It was a gesture that spoke of a deeper intimacy and Silver felt like a voyeur to see it.
Flint released her and turned to Silver, his eyes hardening again. "You will heal her."
"James!" The sharp exclamation began a coughing fit and it was a moment before Miranda could continue, while Flint's concern had him kneeling at her bedside.
"Water," Miranda said when she managed to catch her breath and Flint left the room, dashing off to the kitchen.
Silver again weighed up his options and found them all wanting.
"You must excuse him," Miranda said. "He is desperate. For myself I am coming to terms with my mortality, though he cannot. And while I believe in God, I do not believe some travelling salesman can bring me healing where a doctor or a priest cannot."
Silver warmed to her immediately. She was still pretty, despite the ravages of the mysterious ailment, practical and decent, and a woman who brought out the humanity in the presumably powerful and dangerous Flint. "God works in mysterious ways," he offered, unwilling to drop his charade without a better plan in place.
She gave a wan smile. Flint returned with a glass of water and fussed over Miranda as she took it and sipped at the cool liquid.
"Do you require anything for the ritual?" Flint asked Silver.
Rum, Silver thought, but didn't say. Half a bottle or so would help matters along right now.
"It's not a ritual," he said, because again, potentially being accused of witchcraft even in this relatively enlightened era was not on his to do list. "I merely require silence and belief."
Silver closed his eyes. For the first time in over a year he began truly praying. Dear Lord, I know I've been a bit of a rogue but I really have helped people you know, and I don't want to die here, you don't want my death on this dear woman's conscience do you?
He opened his eyes and went to crouch at Miranda's side. Flint watched him, hawk like, from the opposite side of the bed. Silver took Miranda's hand in one of his, and placed the other on her head.
"Dear Lord," Silver intoned and he meant it, for his sake, for Miranda's, even for Flint's at this point now he'd seen the agony in Flint's eyes. "I beseech thee…"
Afterwards he couldn't be sure what he'd said. The words came unbidden and fell from his lips without conscious volition. He only came back to himself when he said, "Amen" and realised there were tears running down his cheeks and he was exhausted.
"Amen," Flint repeated and his own eyes were damp.
Miranda was silent, eyes closed, and for a second Silver feared that she'd gone. Not cured but free from pain at least. Yet to his relief he saw her chest rise and fall. Was it is his imagination, or was there a touch of colour in her grey cheeks?
Silver straightened up and stepped away, almost falling as the room tilted. He braced himself against the wall and then Flint came and took his arm, guided him to the living room and a comfy chair.
It was a little like being drunk, a little like being on a storm tossed ship. Silver blinked rapidly, tried to regain his equilibrium. A china cup was pressed into his hands and the smell of tea tickled his nostrils. Grateful for the grounding of the warmth against his palms, Silver sipped at the tea and felt the dizziness pass.
Flint took the chair opposite, his own cup held on his knee, untouched.
"I have done what I can," Silver said at last. He finished the tea. The delicate cup wasn't much of a weapon but he clutched at it anyway, afraid of Flint and what he might do next.
"I know." Flint stared at him as if he was seeing into Silver's soul. "I think you're a fake. All faith healers, in fact."
Silver lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Then why bring me here?"
"Because I am desperate enough to consider even the impossible. I have to know I have tried everything to save her."
Silver ran through all the things he might say, from words of comfort to clever attempts at manipulation, but nothing seemed appropriate.
"And because I have, on occasion, been known to be wrong in my assumptions," Flint added. "What I witnessed in there…what I felt…"
It had lacked his usual showmanship and yet it had been the most real act Silver had ever participated in. He wanted to brush it off as the power of suggestion. They were all longing for a miracle, needing to believe in it, and the power of placebo could not be underestimated.
Yet he couldn't fully believe that. He'd caught a glimpse of something otherworldly and things would never be the same. He lifted the cup to his lips, found it empty.
"More tea?" Flint asked, casual as any good host would be.
Silver nodded and let Flint take his precious not-actually-a-weapon from him. He lay back in the chair and took slow, deep breaths to calm himself, let his eyes close.
Silver sat up, startled. It was dark, the only light from a lantern on a coffee table. Flint was nowhere to be seen. Silver stood, padded towards the kitchen. Back door, or try the drawers and get a knife, yes find a weapon and an escape route –
"You're awake."
Silver nearly jumped out of his skin. He clasped his chest and turned to see Flint hovering at the bedroom door.
Flint nodded his head. "She's doing better. Come and see."
Silver obeyed. Miranda was sitting up in bed and despite the forgiving candlelight Silver truly thought her skin was rosier, the shadows beneath her eyes faded somewhat. She reached out a hand and Silver clasped it.
"Thank you," she said. "If this lasts only a day, it is a gift beyond measure. To breathe easily and be free of pain. I shall sit in the garden tomorrow and enjoy the sun on my skin and the scent of the roses and be content."
Silver nodded. "I am only an instrument of the Divine," he said, and the words had an edge to them that they previously lacked. Rule one, never believe your own bullshit – but what if it wasn't as much bull as you thought?
Flint smiled at Miranda and then gestured to Silver. They went to the dining room and Flint pulled open a drawer from the sideboard and took out a leather bag. He passed it to Silver. "Your payment."
"Just let me go free," Silver said, and turning down money was not anything he ever did, yet somehow it felt right to turn it down.
"I keep my promises," Flint said. "You will be returned to your people and you will take those funds for your holy endeavours."
Silver clutched at the leather. Some of this was truly going to find its way into church coffers this time. "Thank you."
"Thank you." Flint held out his hand and Silver shook it. "Perhaps we will meet again."
"God willing," Silver said, out of habit.
Flint escorted him out to the carriage and, unguarded this time, Silver was sent on his way.
The journey back gave him time to consider. He couldn't be sure what had happened, or how long Miranda would live, but something had occurred in that house. This scam was over, he decided. It had become too real. He'd broken rule one and continuing with the act would be in violation of rule two.
What next then? He'd attempted to take work as a cook once but had been fired within the day. Carpentry was not his strong suit. Fishing, maybe? Silver toyed with the idea of a small vessel – a trading vessel? Less smelly than fish or crab, and a chance to explore more of the world.
He thought he would know what to do when he saw a sign and that's when he knew he was lost, believing in his own bullshit, believing in faith or fate.
Yet after he'd paid off his crew, sold the tent, and made a sizeable donation to a nearby church, John Silver ambled down to the docks, laid eyes on the Miracle of Faith, and knew he'd found his next adventure.
It's an odd choice for my first foray into the Black Sails fandom, I admit. I was watching "Houdini and Doyle" in which an episode featured a questionable faith healer and that inspired this AU with silver tongued conman John Silver, who is sometimes as surprised by his own influence as his canon counterpart. S2 of Black Sails captured my imagination more than S1, so here I am finally writing fic, and there may be more in the future :)
Promo post at Tumblr
