Fountain of Youth
Hm, hm, plot is taking shape. What is this madness?
And may I say one thing? I'd hide the wig.
Title: Noli me Tangere
Pairing: Eh. None really. Mercer and Beckett just act like an old married couple. As they do.
Rating: PG-ish
Characters: Everyone and their grandmother. Plus new people from Pirates 4. :D
Summary: Somehow, through the magic of plot holes, Mercer and Beckett survive 3 and are chillin' in London when Sparrow shows up. Let the quest (race) for the fountain of youth begin!
Part I
Part II
Part III
Mercer is in Putney. There are men milling in the streets, strangled accents fill his ears and he is reminded of home. Reminded of the dank water of the River Mosley. The ride to Liverpool, the harsh English language that turns into a creature of its own on the docks. He can see Sparrow enter one of the pubs, the seedier ones. He follows in after him and briefly wonders which old house was owned by Cromwell. Not the Protector, but the father of the Earl of Essex. The iron smith, brewer, gambler, brawler.
'Oh, I didn' 'spect ta see ye 'ere. Thought ye'd keep yer goodself on the north bank.'
'There has been a change to the original arrangement.'
'Oh?' The pirate spins, arms pinwheel, his grin is lecherous. 'Wot change is that?'
'The king requires there be an auditor. He wants to make sure you behave. I don't think that will be enough so I'm adding something to the deal.'
Sparrows leans in, hand flat on Mercer's chest. They're almost the same height. Can almost see eye to eye.
'Did yer lovely little lord Beckett send ye?'
'Yes. And no.' He smiles. Sparrow steps back, an unconscious reaction. 'I am to be sent as the auditor and if you fuck up I have no compunction about slitting your lovely little throat.'
'Woah there, mate. Aren't ye supposed to threaten someone I love? Isn't that more traditional?'
'I am. I'm threatening Sparrow's all consuming love for Sparrow. You fuck up. You die.'
'Yer not as subtle as Beckett, are ye?'
'Tide runs out tomorrow at six. Your ship will be on it with or without you. Understood?'
The pirate frowns. Jeweled hand glitters in dim pub light. Around them the crowd surges, grows, moves forward and back. Pints are swinging in the air. Floor is already sticky with sweat and alcohol and piss.
'I thought I was the captain,' he pouts. An act. Part of Sparrow's theatre of a life.
'Tomorrow at six.'
Mercer leaves before Sparrow can ask - 'Ow are ye feelin' mate? Ye seem more annoyed than usual, fer yer goodself that is.
--
Sparrow wrote to him. A scrawled message - 'I don't none approve of yer offer'. He showed it to Beckett who raised an eyebrow and said that by the logic of double negatives Sparrow, in essence, approves of the offer. How charming.
'I should take it seriously, sir.' He says it evenly. Beckett nods. He knows. Of all people. he knows. Sparrow had said, 'aren't ye supposed to threaten someone I love? Isn't that more traditional?' Sparrow said it, forgetting that neither Mercer nor Beckett love. He said it forgetting that they weren't men the same way he was.
Still. If the pirate lays a hand on the lord he'll slit his pretty little throat.
'By the way,' Beckett's languid voice calls him back to the office. He drifts in. An after thought. 'What offer did you make him?'
'One he clearly doesn't like.'
'Who are you going off to kill?'
'No one in particular'
There was silence. Then laughter. Beckett nodded, yes, yes, of course, no one in particular. Yes, yes, this world is done with the likes of Captain Jack Sparrow.
--
Fuck.
Mercer doesn't overly care for extreme language. Only when it suits the moment.
But. Fuck.
He finds himself falling forward. A soft hiss, curse, 'no, no, no, no, can't let 'im die. Beckett'll have me guts fer garters'. 'Why didn't ya say so?' A mumble. He tries to move. A boot on his back. What's this? Mr. Mercer actually helpless? Never thought I'd see the day.
He smiles.
'Long time no see, Barbosa.'
Short laugh. Metallic taste in his mouth. Silence. Something hits him. Hard. Back of his head.
Ow.
Fuck.
--
Tempestas
A storm.
Feminine.
Appropriate.
Beckett wrote it on a letter and gave it to is wife before he had left. Been taken. A combination of both.
'Tempestas. Dies fortasse intelleges.' (A storm. Perhaps one day you will understand)
The ship rocks, surges forward, plunges into the cold dark nothing called Atlantic. A name he wishes didn't exist. But what's in a name? His clerk reminds him, softly. What's in a name? A word that contains a meaning arbitrarily bestowed. Language lacks logic. Rather meaning within languages and words lacks logic. Which Frank decided Arbre would mean tree? Which Spaniard decided Sa Fosca would mean The Darkness?
'Perhaps I should have made a metaphor of our marriage. In the letter I left.'
Mercer doesn't answer for a moment. Perhaps he is thinking. Perhaps he is ignoring his lord.
'Tempestas talis erat et naves ex portu non exierint.'
'I wasn't aware you knew latin that well.'
He can feel the older man shrug. They're sitting on the floor of a bare room and Beckett feels queasy as the ship pitches forwards again.
'A negative result clause requires two words, not one, sir. And there is always a trigger word.'
'You've completed my requirements for a linguistic metaphor, Mr. Mercer.' If Beckett didn't know Mercer better he would have imagined him smiling. But he knows his clerk and his clerk isn't the sort to smile.
'If I had a daughter I would name her Atlantic.'
Third day of the Locking in the Room.
'An interesting name, sir.'
'Would you prefer Clades? Tempestas, for an old one?'
'You associate the negative with the ocean.'
'Don't you?
I would have thought you of all people would. How cold was it? When Davy -'
'Cold. Don't name your daughter Atlantic.'
Beckett uses his lap as a pillow, his coat as a blanket. He does his bes to be forever useful to his lord all the while wondering when he'll be put to pasture. When he'll be given what has been crudely termed, amongst Company clerks, 'gardening leave'.
'Tell me a poem.' The lord demands. They're not sure if it's night or day. He guesses that they've been in the hole for five days. It's dark. They can't see each other. Only feel each other, slowly. This is a nose, that's hair - sorry sir, it's filthy, that's a coat, that's a hand, a knee, an eye, a mouth.
'Tempus erat, quo prima quies mortalibus aegris incipit, et dono divum gratissima serpit - '
'English. I'm too tired to be reminded of school boy lessons.'
'It was time when rest finally came to weary mortals, and by the gift of the gods, it steals most pleasantly over them. There's a bit about Hector of Troy after his battle with Achilles.'
'Being dragged with a chariot around Illium.'
'Yes.'
'I would like to amend my request, Mr. Mercer. I want a poem that doesn't involve painful and bloody deaths of heroic figures.'
'And though I walk through the valley of death-'
'Never mind.'
He knows his master is amused. Can feel the shift of his body, the tension and relaxation of muscles. Beckett sits up, leans against Mercer. Head tilts in against shoulder. He sleeps.
'There's a bit of sick in the corner,' the lord says. It's morning. Or evening. Late afternoon. Middle of the night. Ships are never quiet, there is always creaks and groans and movement and yells of men and boys. Time has ceased to have a meaning. They are awake and that is what matters.
'Are you feeling better, sir?'
'No.'
There is the sound of a pout in his voice. Outside the door there is a scrape, a key in the whole. The door opens, food shoved in. Mercer doesn't recognize the pirate. Each day there's a new one. It's how he keeps track of the passing of time. New faces. New days.
The food is watery. Smells funny. Tastes worse.
--
There is a church in Nijmegen. Built by Charlemagne. It was Catholic, first, then Protestant. The cross has been changed to a rooster. As they do in the Netherlands. Few are madder than Dutchmen. But the corner stone of the church was brought from Rome and it was the corner stone to a temple of Zeus and the land it was built on was were an old pagan temple once stood. And now it's Christian.
'Your point?'
His master is not in the mood.
'That there are precedents. Everything has been done before and while the substance may change the species remains the same.'
'It's the other way around, Mr. Mercer.'
'Sir?'
'The substance remains the same but the species changes on the metaphysical level.'
His master reaches forwards, fingers on his lips and he feels him smile. He knows his master will be confused. Why should he be smiling?
'I know. But for this - the outside changes but the metaphysical is the same. After all, Catholics, Orthodox, and all Protestants worship the same God and son do they not? It's just - do you want images or don't you.'
'It's a little more complicated than that.'
'No, no it's not.' He shrugs. 'At least, to the average layman it's not. Do you want a council, a prince, a king, or a Pope? Do you want Augustine or Paul? Who cares when you plow the field to the same sun.'
'You're feeling philosophical today.'
'Little else to do, sir.'
And he is right, of course.
--
Barbossa is the first to see them as they are dragged into blinding sunlight. A week in darkness and Beckett doesn't think his eyes will function in full light.
'Your government didn't feel fit to trust us, did it?' The older man starts. He doesn't leer as much as Sparrow, doesn't lurch about like the bird that is his namesake. Instead he is calm, collected, leaning against an old desk and watching them with old eyes that have seen, known, and tasted death.
'I wouldn't say that,' Beckett begins softly, unsure of his footing. 'Merely aware of past records.'
'Past records, aye. That's what you would say. Are they aware of yours?'
Beckett feels Mercer stir beside him. He looks over and the clerk's face is carefully still, carefully manicured impartial stillness. He remembers that he had hired the man for more reasons than a good knife.
'Completely, I should think. But it's slightly different, murder and mayhem coming from one of their own.' Beckett gives an elegant shrug. His shoulders are stiff, they protest the movement. Barbossa seems to notice and smiles. Cold. He reminds Beckett of Mercer. 'Besides, the Company owns England.'
'What are you saying?' Barbossa asks it to the clerk who matches him unforgiving smile for unforgiving smile.
'Sir is saying that the government doesn't take a piss without first consultin' the Company. You see, control of Amsterdam, the colonies, and all trade has that sort of effect on a country.'
'True,' drawled. Beckett mutters to Mercer - I was saying that but with less crudeness. Mercer hisses back - this is a pirate. 'I hear you made a deal with Sparrow. Or rather, made a threat to him. He,' the older man pauses, playing that he is searching for the words. 'fucks up and he'll die, aye?'
Silence.
'Something like that,' Mercer finally mutters.
'Something like that. Ha. I prefer it when you're northern. Southern blood is too...posh. I've little liking for the twat but he lives for now. When I give the word,' Barbossa is smiling again and Beckett finds himself shivering. He has seen cold smiles but this was new. 'Do with him as you please. Understood?'
Mercer inclines his head. Beckett glares at him, the situation out of his control. His feet are in the air and the nausea of vertigo is finally hitting him.
'You will be given a bunk to share. I'm sure you'll manage, neither of you are very large. You will have to help on deck, attend to the duties of the ship. And Lord Beckett.'
The lord looks to the pirate. Annoyed, arrogant, spiteful.
'I'd hide the wig. The last time Sparrow had a man with a wig aboard a ship he made him scrub the deck with it.'
And may I say one thing? I'd hide the wig.
Title: Noli me Tangere
Pairing: Eh. None really. Mercer and Beckett just act like an old married couple. As they do.
Rating: PG-ish
Characters: Everyone and their grandmother. Plus new people from Pirates 4. :D
Summary: Somehow, through the magic of plot holes, Mercer and Beckett survive 3 and are chillin' in London when Sparrow shows up. Let the quest (race) for the fountain of youth begin!
Part I
Part II
Part III
Mercer is in Putney. There are men milling in the streets, strangled accents fill his ears and he is reminded of home. Reminded of the dank water of the River Mosley. The ride to Liverpool, the harsh English language that turns into a creature of its own on the docks. He can see Sparrow enter one of the pubs, the seedier ones. He follows in after him and briefly wonders which old house was owned by Cromwell. Not the Protector, but the father of the Earl of Essex. The iron smith, brewer, gambler, brawler.
'Oh, I didn' 'spect ta see ye 'ere. Thought ye'd keep yer goodself on the north bank.'
'There has been a change to the original arrangement.'
'Oh?' The pirate spins, arms pinwheel, his grin is lecherous. 'Wot change is that?'
'The king requires there be an auditor. He wants to make sure you behave. I don't think that will be enough so I'm adding something to the deal.'
Sparrows leans in, hand flat on Mercer's chest. They're almost the same height. Can almost see eye to eye.
'Did yer lovely little lord Beckett send ye?'
'Yes. And no.' He smiles. Sparrow steps back, an unconscious reaction. 'I am to be sent as the auditor and if you fuck up I have no compunction about slitting your lovely little throat.'
'Woah there, mate. Aren't ye supposed to threaten someone I love? Isn't that more traditional?'
'I am. I'm threatening Sparrow's all consuming love for Sparrow. You fuck up. You die.'
'Yer not as subtle as Beckett, are ye?'
'Tide runs out tomorrow at six. Your ship will be on it with or without you. Understood?'
The pirate frowns. Jeweled hand glitters in dim pub light. Around them the crowd surges, grows, moves forward and back. Pints are swinging in the air. Floor is already sticky with sweat and alcohol and piss.
'I thought I was the captain,' he pouts. An act. Part of Sparrow's theatre of a life.
'Tomorrow at six.'
Mercer leaves before Sparrow can ask - 'Ow are ye feelin' mate? Ye seem more annoyed than usual, fer yer goodself that is.
--
Sparrow wrote to him. A scrawled message - 'I don't none approve of yer offer'. He showed it to Beckett who raised an eyebrow and said that by the logic of double negatives Sparrow, in essence, approves of the offer. How charming.
'I should take it seriously, sir.' He says it evenly. Beckett nods. He knows. Of all people. he knows. Sparrow had said, 'aren't ye supposed to threaten someone I love? Isn't that more traditional?' Sparrow said it, forgetting that neither Mercer nor Beckett love. He said it forgetting that they weren't men the same way he was.
Still. If the pirate lays a hand on the lord he'll slit his pretty little throat.
'By the way,' Beckett's languid voice calls him back to the office. He drifts in. An after thought. 'What offer did you make him?'
'One he clearly doesn't like.'
'Who are you going off to kill?'
'No one in particular'
There was silence. Then laughter. Beckett nodded, yes, yes, of course, no one in particular. Yes, yes, this world is done with the likes of Captain Jack Sparrow.
--
Fuck.
Mercer doesn't overly care for extreme language. Only when it suits the moment.
But. Fuck.
He finds himself falling forward. A soft hiss, curse, 'no, no, no, no, can't let 'im die. Beckett'll have me guts fer garters'. 'Why didn't ya say so?' A mumble. He tries to move. A boot on his back. What's this? Mr. Mercer actually helpless? Never thought I'd see the day.
He smiles.
'Long time no see, Barbosa.'
Short laugh. Metallic taste in his mouth. Silence. Something hits him. Hard. Back of his head.
Ow.
Fuck.
--
Tempestas
A storm.
Feminine.
Appropriate.
Beckett wrote it on a letter and gave it to is wife before he had left. Been taken. A combination of both.
'Tempestas. Dies fortasse intelleges.' (A storm. Perhaps one day you will understand)
The ship rocks, surges forward, plunges into the cold dark nothing called Atlantic. A name he wishes didn't exist. But what's in a name? His clerk reminds him, softly. What's in a name? A word that contains a meaning arbitrarily bestowed. Language lacks logic. Rather meaning within languages and words lacks logic. Which Frank decided Arbre would mean tree? Which Spaniard decided Sa Fosca would mean The Darkness?
'Perhaps I should have made a metaphor of our marriage. In the letter I left.'
Mercer doesn't answer for a moment. Perhaps he is thinking. Perhaps he is ignoring his lord.
'Tempestas talis erat et naves ex portu non exierint.'
'I wasn't aware you knew latin that well.'
He can feel the older man shrug. They're sitting on the floor of a bare room and Beckett feels queasy as the ship pitches forwards again.
'A negative result clause requires two words, not one, sir. And there is always a trigger word.'
'You've completed my requirements for a linguistic metaphor, Mr. Mercer.' If Beckett didn't know Mercer better he would have imagined him smiling. But he knows his clerk and his clerk isn't the sort to smile.
'If I had a daughter I would name her Atlantic.'
Third day of the Locking in the Room.
'An interesting name, sir.'
'Would you prefer Clades? Tempestas, for an old one?'
'You associate the negative with the ocean.'
'Don't you?
I would have thought you of all people would. How cold was it? When Davy -'
'Cold. Don't name your daughter Atlantic.'
Beckett uses his lap as a pillow, his coat as a blanket. He does his bes to be forever useful to his lord all the while wondering when he'll be put to pasture. When he'll be given what has been crudely termed, amongst Company clerks, 'gardening leave'.
'Tell me a poem.' The lord demands. They're not sure if it's night or day. He guesses that they've been in the hole for five days. It's dark. They can't see each other. Only feel each other, slowly. This is a nose, that's hair - sorry sir, it's filthy, that's a coat, that's a hand, a knee, an eye, a mouth.
'Tempus erat, quo prima quies mortalibus aegris incipit, et dono divum gratissima serpit - '
'English. I'm too tired to be reminded of school boy lessons.'
'It was time when rest finally came to weary mortals, and by the gift of the gods, it steals most pleasantly over them. There's a bit about Hector of Troy after his battle with Achilles.'
'Being dragged with a chariot around Illium.'
'Yes.'
'I would like to amend my request, Mr. Mercer. I want a poem that doesn't involve painful and bloody deaths of heroic figures.'
'And though I walk through the valley of death-'
'Never mind.'
He knows his master is amused. Can feel the shift of his body, the tension and relaxation of muscles. Beckett sits up, leans against Mercer. Head tilts in against shoulder. He sleeps.
'There's a bit of sick in the corner,' the lord says. It's morning. Or evening. Late afternoon. Middle of the night. Ships are never quiet, there is always creaks and groans and movement and yells of men and boys. Time has ceased to have a meaning. They are awake and that is what matters.
'Are you feeling better, sir?'
'No.'
There is the sound of a pout in his voice. Outside the door there is a scrape, a key in the whole. The door opens, food shoved in. Mercer doesn't recognize the pirate. Each day there's a new one. It's how he keeps track of the passing of time. New faces. New days.
The food is watery. Smells funny. Tastes worse.
--
There is a church in Nijmegen. Built by Charlemagne. It was Catholic, first, then Protestant. The cross has been changed to a rooster. As they do in the Netherlands. Few are madder than Dutchmen. But the corner stone of the church was brought from Rome and it was the corner stone to a temple of Zeus and the land it was built on was were an old pagan temple once stood. And now it's Christian.
'Your point?'
His master is not in the mood.
'That there are precedents. Everything has been done before and while the substance may change the species remains the same.'
'It's the other way around, Mr. Mercer.'
'Sir?'
'The substance remains the same but the species changes on the metaphysical level.'
His master reaches forwards, fingers on his lips and he feels him smile. He knows his master will be confused. Why should he be smiling?
'I know. But for this - the outside changes but the metaphysical is the same. After all, Catholics, Orthodox, and all Protestants worship the same God and son do they not? It's just - do you want images or don't you.'
'It's a little more complicated than that.'
'No, no it's not.' He shrugs. 'At least, to the average layman it's not. Do you want a council, a prince, a king, or a Pope? Do you want Augustine or Paul? Who cares when you plow the field to the same sun.'
'You're feeling philosophical today.'
'Little else to do, sir.'
And he is right, of course.
--
Barbossa is the first to see them as they are dragged into blinding sunlight. A week in darkness and Beckett doesn't think his eyes will function in full light.
'Your government didn't feel fit to trust us, did it?' The older man starts. He doesn't leer as much as Sparrow, doesn't lurch about like the bird that is his namesake. Instead he is calm, collected, leaning against an old desk and watching them with old eyes that have seen, known, and tasted death.
'I wouldn't say that,' Beckett begins softly, unsure of his footing. 'Merely aware of past records.'
'Past records, aye. That's what you would say. Are they aware of yours?'
Beckett feels Mercer stir beside him. He looks over and the clerk's face is carefully still, carefully manicured impartial stillness. He remembers that he had hired the man for more reasons than a good knife.
'Completely, I should think. But it's slightly different, murder and mayhem coming from one of their own.' Beckett gives an elegant shrug. His shoulders are stiff, they protest the movement. Barbossa seems to notice and smiles. Cold. He reminds Beckett of Mercer. 'Besides, the Company owns England.'
'What are you saying?' Barbossa asks it to the clerk who matches him unforgiving smile for unforgiving smile.
'Sir is saying that the government doesn't take a piss without first consultin' the Company. You see, control of Amsterdam, the colonies, and all trade has that sort of effect on a country.'
'True,' drawled. Beckett mutters to Mercer - I was saying that but with less crudeness. Mercer hisses back - this is a pirate. 'I hear you made a deal with Sparrow. Or rather, made a threat to him. He,' the older man pauses, playing that he is searching for the words. 'fucks up and he'll die, aye?'
Silence.
'Something like that,' Mercer finally mutters.
'Something like that. Ha. I prefer it when you're northern. Southern blood is too...posh. I've little liking for the twat but he lives for now. When I give the word,' Barbossa is smiling again and Beckett finds himself shivering. He has seen cold smiles but this was new. 'Do with him as you please. Understood?'
Mercer inclines his head. Beckett glares at him, the situation out of his control. His feet are in the air and the nausea of vertigo is finally hitting him.
'You will be given a bunk to share. I'm sure you'll manage, neither of you are very large. You will have to help on deck, attend to the duties of the ship. And Lord Beckett.'
The lord looks to the pirate. Annoyed, arrogant, spiteful.
'I'd hide the wig. The last time Sparrow had a man with a wig aboard a ship he made him scrub the deck with it.'