Hornigold has been drinking and summons Izzy to his cabin. The captain is red in the face, uncharacteristically emotional. When Izzy reports for orders, he finds himself enfolded in Hornigold’s iron arms, clutched like a long-lost sweetheart. “My Sam! I knew it. I knew you didn’t drown. Dear Sam…”

Izzy has heard the name aboard the Ranger, in whispers only. At port, the stories are wild: Hornigold's original protégée, the richest, most daring, most winsome son-of-a-bitch ever to prowl the waves. Wrecked by no man in the end, but a perfidious reef. Hornigold, it's said, went mad. So, yeah—

It shouldn't come as a surprise, but Izzy isn't an imaginative man, and now, crushed to Hornigold's chest like a doll, he merely wonders what he'll tell the others. Surely they can hear the captain, his commanding baritone reduced to womanly moans of "Sam, Sam... devil child..."

Calculations tick through Izzy's brain. He's roughly the age Sam was when he left Hornigold's nest and struck out to make his name. Sam, by all accounts, was a brick wall of a man, with a reddish mane and twinkling eyes. The usual myths. Izzy can't help but wonder why he's been picked for this.

And is he, y'know, expected to participate? Verbally? The men all know what Sam was to Hornigold, but they don't *know* know. Not officially. If Izzy comes out with an ill-timed I-love-you, he might find himself dancing the hemp fandango for his initiative. Just his luck, frankly. A typical Tuesday.

Big hands spread hot over his shoulders and down his back. It isn't the first time Hornigold has summoned Izzy to his bed, but he's never been expected to play a role as the old man has his way. Fucking hell. Ed is a talented actor, and Rackham can turn on the tears at a moment's notice. Why Izzy?

But there's never a 'because' with Hornigold. His whims are God's word shining in the firmament, and as he strips 'Sam' of his shirt and mumbles hazy praise, Izzy takes comfort in knowing he hasn't a choice here, or anywhere. And it's nice to be desired, even in the guise of a dead man.

The drink has dampened the captain's ardour. As he dances Izzy backwards towards the big curtained bed, there's no desperation in his breeches. It's all in his eyes, brimming with tears of relief. Izzy almost feels a glimmer of pity for the old man. Letting yourself love - it's fucking suicide.

Sweaty fingers struggle with the laces securing Izzy's breeches, and it's only frustration that makes Izzy cover the captain's hands with his own, guiding him to free the fledgling cockstand bullying against the leather. "So eager," Hornigold slurs. "Always were a hot little catamite, eh?"