"Mortal Beloved" by inlovewithnight- Pirates of the Caribbean
TITLE: Mortal Beloved
AUTHOR: inlovewithnight
CHARACTERS: Will, Elizabeth, Calypso
RATING: PG
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, no profit made
CHALLENGE PROMPT: Ghosts
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Futurefic. I love Greek myths too much. Thanks to romanticalgirl for beta'ing.
Elizabeth dies in bed.
Her throat is cut, sliced from skin to spine, a fitting death for a pirate king, but she is in bed and on land without a wave or a current to be found. She does not die at sea. This puts her spirit on an entirely different path than the souls the Dutchman collects and ferries, one that never skirts the edges of Davy Jones' Locker.
Will never would have known she'd died at all, except that the circumstances of her death do not satisfy her, and even dead Elizabeth will insist upon her own way, and she has no fear of either hell or high water.
**
Calypso has kept in touch all along, either as herself or by sending a handful of stony crabs to follow him about the Dutchman, scuttling over the ever-rotting, never-failing boards. Will is polite to all of her manifestations; bringing the wrath of a goddess down on his head can only be bad for business. Magic may be fleeing the other world, but it is strong as ever on the seas the Dutchman sails, and he has no doubt that Calypso can make his life as miserable as his predecessor's.
Usually he can tell that she's coming, by a change in the wind or a rise in the sea, but this time there is no warning, only a flash of lightning and a groan from the Dutchman's bones as she appears on the deck. Will wipes the salt spray from his eyes and sketches a bow, then leaves the wheel to cross to her side.
"My lady," he says. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
She has shed all traces of Tia Dalma he had known, washed them away in the endless waves of her empire as she reclaimed her power. She takes on new forms with her whims, now, as changeable as water. Only her eyes remain the same, whatever face they peer out of. They are cool and impassive, studying him, and he suspects not for the first time that she does not particularly like him. But then, he isn't sure that the notion of like is even a relevant one here. He is acceptable to her, because he does his duty and he treats her with respect. No more and no less can be expected.
"That girl of yours," she says. "She's gotten herself in trouble."
"That's hardly unusual," he says, prudently overlooking the small matter that it has been a very long time indeed since Elizabeth might be called a girl, in any of the common senses of the term.
"She died." Calypso's voice holds the absolute indifference of the more than mortal, the words as casual as tossed stones, and it takes a moment before Will can separate the facts from the tone.
"She...she what?"
"She died." The goddess sounds supremely irritated, and Will would apologize but he can't move, can't think, can't feel anything but the empty hollowness in his chest where his heart ought to be pounding. "Throat cut like a chicken."
"But I haven't seen her." He looks out over the rail even as he says it, hoping to prove himself wrong. "I've not missed a trip, I would have seen her."
"She died away from the sea." Calypso's distaste for the notion is clear even through the numb fog settling over Will's mind. "Got away from the water and look at what happened. She won't be passing this way."
She won't be passing this way. If the other words were stones, these are boulders, battering Will beneath their weight. "She's...she's gone, then."
"Gone and causing a whole hell of a lot of trouble." She sighs, a gust of wind stirring the Dutchman's ragged sails. "That's why you have to go and get her."
"Get her? She's dead, how can I get her if she's...how can she be causing trouble, she's dead!"
"By the stars, William." Lightning dances in the rigging, crackling with Calypso's impatience. "All this time and you still think the lines between the living and the dead are any more real than you want them to be?" He opens his mouth to answer, but she glares and he snaps it shut again. "She doesn't want to be where she is, she wants to be here with you. She can't find her way and she's trying to tear down a hell of a lot of walls that need to stay where they are. So you go get her. You find her and you bring her back here and we don't end up with the dead spilling through to where the living need to be."
"I have a job to do." He waves his hands around, indicating the ship. "Remember that?"
"I'll take care of the ship." She looks out over the water and he follows her gaze, startled to see that they're rapidly approaching a coastline. "Are you familiar with the stories of the Greeks, William?"
"Somewhat." He anxiously watches the land approach-too fast, much too fast. "My lady, watch the..."
"I said I will take care of the ship, William. My ship." She glares at him sharply and he bites his lip, silently willing the keel not to run aground. "Troublesome people, the Greeks, but they got a few things right. You know the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?"
He nods, his throat gone dry as the ship pivots neatly to pull sidelong to the shore. "He went down into the land of the dead to fetch his love."
"Very good." She points, and the mist over the shoreline thins enough to let him see the mouth of a river. "Don't worry about the ferryman. He will recognize you as one of his kind."
"That's it?" He looks from her to the river and back, wishing he had a heartbeat that could race with shock and outrage. "I'm just supposed to wander through the land of the dead until I find her? And then what?"
"You said you knew the story."
"I lead her out without looking back. Is that right?"
"Very good. I knew you were a smart boy."
"How am I supposed to find her?"
She laughs, and the boards of the ship creak and groan, laughing with her. "Oh, William. She will make herself easy to find."
**
He has been living among ghosts for a long time now, but this is different.
The presence of the Dutchman, its purpose and its form, impose an outline of the world of the living onto his duty. And in truth he himself is not dead, but hovering in the space between life and death, and he can, and does, choose to cling more to the former.
Here, though, there are no lines or walls. The dead have crossed over, and whatever path they take to reach the other side, Will can neither see it nor understand it. The spirits drift around him, thick as smoke, moving here and there apparently without purpose. They don't touch him; a rough space around his body remains clear as he walks along. He is not of this place.
Thank fortune for that.
Fortune, and Jack Sparrow, and Elizabeth.
He walks along through the featureless fields, looking and listening for any sort of sign. Calypso said this would be easy. Of course, he of all people should know perfectly well that Calypso lies.
He's had little sense of time since he crossed over, and there is even less to signify its passage here than on the Dutchman, where at least the tides wax and wane. So there is no way to say how long he walks before he realizes that the eddies of ghosts are all moving in the same direction. Away from something.
He knows his wife well, and so he turns and starts in that direction.
**
He has found, ferrying the dead, that they can bring exactly as much with them as they truly think they ought to have.
It doesn't surprise him in the slightest that Elizabeth has her sword.
When he finds her, she is hacking at the ground and screaming in frustration, her voice raw with rage and the gaping hole in her throat. He knew that she would carry that with her, and his empty chest aches to see it, but she is still beautiful. He will never see her as anything other than beautiful.
"All right," she says abruptly, straightening and running a hand through her hair. The motion tugs it back off her face, and he studies the changes since he last saw her. More than halfway through this cycle of waiting, less than complete. "If I can't get a word out of these bastards, I'll find the next bastards, the higher-ups, and I'll make them tell me, there must be a..."
"Putting terror into the hearts of hell is just a saying, you know." He finds himself smiling as she whirls around, raising her sword again. "Or supposed to be."
"Will." She remains on-guard, wary, and he raises his hands to show that they are empty. "You're not supposed to be here."
"Neither are you."
"Oh, I am." She glances around, glaring at the ghosts drifting by, no longer keeping their distance now that she isn't slashing or screaming. "I'm dead."
"I know." He takes a careful step closer, then another as she lowers her sword. "I'm sorry."
She shrugs. "It was bound to happen eventually."
"Hazard of the trade?" He unknots the kerchief from his hair as he moves closer, folding it along the diagonal and then rolling it along its length.
"Yes." She gives him a questioning look, and he smiles softly, then gestures until she lifts her chin. "The plan, however, was for it to happen at sea."
"I thought as much." He ties the kerchief around her neck, carefully arranging it to cover the slash and preserve his wife her vanity. "So much for plans."
"They always get buggered all to hell." He gasps in faint, feigned shock, and she laughs, reaching to rest her hand on his chest. "Pardon my language."
"Fortunately, you and I have a friend in high places." He frowns a bit. "Or low. I've no idea where Calypso lives."
"Calypso sent you?" He nods and she smiles again. "Knew I liked her."
"We've developed a certain...acquaintance." He hesitates a moment. "This may not be the ideal time to ask, but..." He covers her hand on his chest with his own and looks at her questioningly.
"Oh. That." She nods, her expression suddenly very serious. "Well. I did a lot of thinking about what to do with the thing. How to best keep it safe? And..."
He waits for what he thinks is a terribly patient uncertain length of time before prodding. "And?"
She rubs her jaw, still serious. "I bricked it up in a cave on an island in the middle of nowhere. Can't imagine anyone will stumble across it for a good long time."
He has not laughed since the last time he saw her. He'd forgotten how it feels, how it soars. "You bricked it up in a cave."
She nods, a smile breaking through. "I did."
"Why didn't Davy Jones ever think of that, in all those years?"
"I'm much smarter than Davy Jones." She leans in and catches his face and kisses him, and he finds that he'd forgotten how that felt as well. "And better looking."
"Certainly that." He rests his forehead against hers, shuddering for a moment, refusing to allow himself to register his thoughts. There are too many questions, too much to fear, too many chances that they won't get back to the ship at all, or that when they do, she won't be able to stay. He doesn't know how this part works; he's never asked. He could never be sure that Calypso would care to answer.
He's quite sure, however, that if there is an answer to be had, Elizabeth will dig it up, whether the goddess wants to share it or no.
"How do we get back?" Elizabeth asks quietly, and he gives himself a mental shake and steps back.
"An excellent question, my Eurydice."
He waits for the recognition to flicker in her eyes. It doesn't take long. "So you lead the way and don't look back." He nods. "That didn't work terribly well for Orpheus, you know."
"I do know." He catches her hand and tugs her close again. "That's why you're going to lead the way instead. I know you won't look back, and you know I'll follow."
"But I don't know where we're going."
He smiles and guides her hand to his belt, settling her fingers on the cord tied to it in a stout sailor's knot, then stretching out through the mist toward the coastline and the Dutchman. "I read all of the myths, my love. Now lead on."
AUTHOR: inlovewithnight
CHARACTERS: Will, Elizabeth, Calypso
RATING: PG
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, no profit made
CHALLENGE PROMPT: Ghosts
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Futurefic. I love Greek myths too much. Thanks to romanticalgirl for beta'ing.
Elizabeth dies in bed.
Her throat is cut, sliced from skin to spine, a fitting death for a pirate king, but she is in bed and on land without a wave or a current to be found. She does not die at sea. This puts her spirit on an entirely different path than the souls the Dutchman collects and ferries, one that never skirts the edges of Davy Jones' Locker.
Will never would have known she'd died at all, except that the circumstances of her death do not satisfy her, and even dead Elizabeth will insist upon her own way, and she has no fear of either hell or high water.
**
Calypso has kept in touch all along, either as herself or by sending a handful of stony crabs to follow him about the Dutchman, scuttling over the ever-rotting, never-failing boards. Will is polite to all of her manifestations; bringing the wrath of a goddess down on his head can only be bad for business. Magic may be fleeing the other world, but it is strong as ever on the seas the Dutchman sails, and he has no doubt that Calypso can make his life as miserable as his predecessor's.
Usually he can tell that she's coming, by a change in the wind or a rise in the sea, but this time there is no warning, only a flash of lightning and a groan from the Dutchman's bones as she appears on the deck. Will wipes the salt spray from his eyes and sketches a bow, then leaves the wheel to cross to her side.
"My lady," he says. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
She has shed all traces of Tia Dalma he had known, washed them away in the endless waves of her empire as she reclaimed her power. She takes on new forms with her whims, now, as changeable as water. Only her eyes remain the same, whatever face they peer out of. They are cool and impassive, studying him, and he suspects not for the first time that she does not particularly like him. But then, he isn't sure that the notion of like is even a relevant one here. He is acceptable to her, because he does his duty and he treats her with respect. No more and no less can be expected.
"That girl of yours," she says. "She's gotten herself in trouble."
"That's hardly unusual," he says, prudently overlooking the small matter that it has been a very long time indeed since Elizabeth might be called a girl, in any of the common senses of the term.
"She died." Calypso's voice holds the absolute indifference of the more than mortal, the words as casual as tossed stones, and it takes a moment before Will can separate the facts from the tone.
"She...she what?"
"She died." The goddess sounds supremely irritated, and Will would apologize but he can't move, can't think, can't feel anything but the empty hollowness in his chest where his heart ought to be pounding. "Throat cut like a chicken."
"But I haven't seen her." He looks out over the rail even as he says it, hoping to prove himself wrong. "I've not missed a trip, I would have seen her."
"She died away from the sea." Calypso's distaste for the notion is clear even through the numb fog settling over Will's mind. "Got away from the water and look at what happened. She won't be passing this way."
She won't be passing this way. If the other words were stones, these are boulders, battering Will beneath their weight. "She's...she's gone, then."
"Gone and causing a whole hell of a lot of trouble." She sighs, a gust of wind stirring the Dutchman's ragged sails. "That's why you have to go and get her."
"Get her? She's dead, how can I get her if she's...how can she be causing trouble, she's dead!"
"By the stars, William." Lightning dances in the rigging, crackling with Calypso's impatience. "All this time and you still think the lines between the living and the dead are any more real than you want them to be?" He opens his mouth to answer, but she glares and he snaps it shut again. "She doesn't want to be where she is, she wants to be here with you. She can't find her way and she's trying to tear down a hell of a lot of walls that need to stay where they are. So you go get her. You find her and you bring her back here and we don't end up with the dead spilling through to where the living need to be."
"I have a job to do." He waves his hands around, indicating the ship. "Remember that?"
"I'll take care of the ship." She looks out over the water and he follows her gaze, startled to see that they're rapidly approaching a coastline. "Are you familiar with the stories of the Greeks, William?"
"Somewhat." He anxiously watches the land approach-too fast, much too fast. "My lady, watch the..."
"I said I will take care of the ship, William. My ship." She glares at him sharply and he bites his lip, silently willing the keel not to run aground. "Troublesome people, the Greeks, but they got a few things right. You know the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?"
He nods, his throat gone dry as the ship pivots neatly to pull sidelong to the shore. "He went down into the land of the dead to fetch his love."
"Very good." She points, and the mist over the shoreline thins enough to let him see the mouth of a river. "Don't worry about the ferryman. He will recognize you as one of his kind."
"That's it?" He looks from her to the river and back, wishing he had a heartbeat that could race with shock and outrage. "I'm just supposed to wander through the land of the dead until I find her? And then what?"
"You said you knew the story."
"I lead her out without looking back. Is that right?"
"Very good. I knew you were a smart boy."
"How am I supposed to find her?"
She laughs, and the boards of the ship creak and groan, laughing with her. "Oh, William. She will make herself easy to find."
**
He has been living among ghosts for a long time now, but this is different.
The presence of the Dutchman, its purpose and its form, impose an outline of the world of the living onto his duty. And in truth he himself is not dead, but hovering in the space between life and death, and he can, and does, choose to cling more to the former.
Here, though, there are no lines or walls. The dead have crossed over, and whatever path they take to reach the other side, Will can neither see it nor understand it. The spirits drift around him, thick as smoke, moving here and there apparently without purpose. They don't touch him; a rough space around his body remains clear as he walks along. He is not of this place.
Thank fortune for that.
Fortune, and Jack Sparrow, and Elizabeth.
He walks along through the featureless fields, looking and listening for any sort of sign. Calypso said this would be easy. Of course, he of all people should know perfectly well that Calypso lies.
He's had little sense of time since he crossed over, and there is even less to signify its passage here than on the Dutchman, where at least the tides wax and wane. So there is no way to say how long he walks before he realizes that the eddies of ghosts are all moving in the same direction. Away from something.
He knows his wife well, and so he turns and starts in that direction.
**
He has found, ferrying the dead, that they can bring exactly as much with them as they truly think they ought to have.
It doesn't surprise him in the slightest that Elizabeth has her sword.
When he finds her, she is hacking at the ground and screaming in frustration, her voice raw with rage and the gaping hole in her throat. He knew that she would carry that with her, and his empty chest aches to see it, but she is still beautiful. He will never see her as anything other than beautiful.
"All right," she says abruptly, straightening and running a hand through her hair. The motion tugs it back off her face, and he studies the changes since he last saw her. More than halfway through this cycle of waiting, less than complete. "If I can't get a word out of these bastards, I'll find the next bastards, the higher-ups, and I'll make them tell me, there must be a..."
"Putting terror into the hearts of hell is just a saying, you know." He finds himself smiling as she whirls around, raising her sword again. "Or supposed to be."
"Will." She remains on-guard, wary, and he raises his hands to show that they are empty. "You're not supposed to be here."
"Neither are you."
"Oh, I am." She glances around, glaring at the ghosts drifting by, no longer keeping their distance now that she isn't slashing or screaming. "I'm dead."
"I know." He takes a careful step closer, then another as she lowers her sword. "I'm sorry."
She shrugs. "It was bound to happen eventually."
"Hazard of the trade?" He unknots the kerchief from his hair as he moves closer, folding it along the diagonal and then rolling it along its length.
"Yes." She gives him a questioning look, and he smiles softly, then gestures until she lifts her chin. "The plan, however, was for it to happen at sea."
"I thought as much." He ties the kerchief around her neck, carefully arranging it to cover the slash and preserve his wife her vanity. "So much for plans."
"They always get buggered all to hell." He gasps in faint, feigned shock, and she laughs, reaching to rest her hand on his chest. "Pardon my language."
"Fortunately, you and I have a friend in high places." He frowns a bit. "Or low. I've no idea where Calypso lives."
"Calypso sent you?" He nods and she smiles again. "Knew I liked her."
"We've developed a certain...acquaintance." He hesitates a moment. "This may not be the ideal time to ask, but..." He covers her hand on his chest with his own and looks at her questioningly.
"Oh. That." She nods, her expression suddenly very serious. "Well. I did a lot of thinking about what to do with the thing. How to best keep it safe? And..."
He waits for what he thinks is a terribly patient uncertain length of time before prodding. "And?"
She rubs her jaw, still serious. "I bricked it up in a cave on an island in the middle of nowhere. Can't imagine anyone will stumble across it for a good long time."
He has not laughed since the last time he saw her. He'd forgotten how it feels, how it soars. "You bricked it up in a cave."
She nods, a smile breaking through. "I did."
"Why didn't Davy Jones ever think of that, in all those years?"
"I'm much smarter than Davy Jones." She leans in and catches his face and kisses him, and he finds that he'd forgotten how that felt as well. "And better looking."
"Certainly that." He rests his forehead against hers, shuddering for a moment, refusing to allow himself to register his thoughts. There are too many questions, too much to fear, too many chances that they won't get back to the ship at all, or that when they do, she won't be able to stay. He doesn't know how this part works; he's never asked. He could never be sure that Calypso would care to answer.
He's quite sure, however, that if there is an answer to be had, Elizabeth will dig it up, whether the goddess wants to share it or no.
"How do we get back?" Elizabeth asks quietly, and he gives himself a mental shake and steps back.
"An excellent question, my Eurydice."
He waits for the recognition to flicker in her eyes. It doesn't take long. "So you lead the way and don't look back." He nods. "That didn't work terribly well for Orpheus, you know."
"I do know." He catches her hand and tugs her close again. "That's why you're going to lead the way instead. I know you won't look back, and you know I'll follow."
"But I don't know where we're going."
He smiles and guides her hand to his belt, settling her fingers on the cord tied to it in a stout sailor's knot, then stretching out through the mist toward the coastline and the Dutchman. "I read all of the myths, my love. Now lead on."