Notable Pirates and Salt-Water Thieves
Title: Notable Pirates and Salt-Water Thieves
Author: djarum99
Rating: R
Characters: Will, Jack, Elizabeth, Teague, Murtogg and Mulroy, the Brethren, and Rosalind
Warnings: sexuality, angst with a side order of silly and unabashed sentiment
Disclaimer: The Mouse owns it all, and has made a handsome profit; I own nothing, and profit not a whit
A/N: Written for potcfest prompt #31: "Will/Elizabeth (Jack too, if you want!), the 'bucket of seawater' loophole to the 'no setting foot on land for ten years' rule" (and of course I wanted Jack :-) This probably bears no resemblance to what the prompter had in mind. A leap forward in time in the ‘verse of December’s Children - Jack, Will, Elizabeth and the citizens of Shipwreck Cove attend a naming ceremony, pirate-style.
"Why are we doing this again?” Mulroy shuffled ankle deep in recalcitrant sand, cursing each grain that had infiltrated boots and breeches. The sharp particles grated between his teeth, mingled with sweat to torment his eyes, and chafed relentlessly at his nether regions. The rope burning into his palms as he trudged uphill had proven ineffective as a counter-irritant. Murtogg, as always, was proving far better suited to that purpose.
“Because Captain Swann and Captain Sparrow ordered it, didn’t they?” Murtogg’s sunny grin remained in place despite the heat, the chafing, and the drudgery of their task. He pushed, and Mulroy pulled, wrestling their unlikely burden towards a makeshift boardwalk zigzagging from the Cove’s docks to the tide line.
“Yes, but why would they order such a thing? A bloody great tub on a bloody great cart, and ‘just haul it down to the water, and see you fill it full.’ With sea-water, no less. Why?” They had reached the splintered pathway, both of them panting as they heaved cartwheels into alignment with planks.
“For her husband, of course.” Murtogg stood back to beam at their success, leaving Mulroy to bear the cart’s full weight as it rumbled seaward.
“Hold! Hold! Damn and blast it, man, you’ve no more brains than a jellyfish. There - keep your grip just there. Can roll the thing from here. Whose husband? ”
“Captain Swann’s husband, him that isn’t Captain Sparrow, that captains the Dutchman, ferries the souls of the dead, and can’t set foot on land but once every ten years. That husband.”
“Ah - so you’re saying the captain of the Dutchman, him that isn’t Captain Sparrow, that ferries the souls of the dead, and can’t set foot on land but once every ten years, has need of a bloody great bathtub?”
“No. You’re not making any sense - must be the heat.” Murtogg’s expression shifted from beatific to kindly, as if favoring a particularly dull child.
“The Dutchman’s captain needs sea-water so as not to break the rule, doesn’t he - just up to his kneecaps should do quite nicely." Murtogg lifted both hands to illustrate the level required, sending the cart careening down the shingle with Mulroy galloping between its shafts, bellowing something about jellyfish and pummeling. At the water’s edge the cart gave one final lurch, sending its spluttering beast of burden face first into the waves.
Murtogg shook his head, a brief frown falling victim to his perpetual good cheer. “No sense at all.”
~
“I feel completely ridiculous.” Death’s master on the seas stood swaying in a sloshing tub of brine, clutching Jack’s shoulder for balance. Eight of the Nereid’s crew now laboured between the slats, heaving the cart uphill towards a circled cluster of boulders. A hidden blaze limned their granite outlines with fire and sent a column of gilded smoke billowing towards the stars.
“You do look a right ponce, Captain Turner - rather like a giant gherkin, truth be told, prompting all manner of salty metaphors I’d currently prefer not to explore, out of respect for the auspicious occasion. However, a little honest self-assessment is good for the soul, mate, assuming you’re still in possession of said slippery metaphysical construct. Are you?” Jack tipped a grin from beneath Will’s elbow, gold and ivory in the torchlight.
“I must be, or I’d not feel the peril of its loss whenever I cross paths with you.” Jack's grin broadened, but he lifted a hand to grip Will’s forearm, steadying him as the wheels stuttered over rocky terrain. Behind them, Elizabeth’s voice murmured reassurance to the swaddled bundle in her arms, the thief of all their hearts and the reason behind this night’s madness. Three months old, the legacy of her mother’s will and her father’s fey charm shining clear in tiny fists, moonbright eyes, and a sable wealth of hair.
“Do you truly believe this ceremony will serve its purpose, Jack? Somehow I doubt that I’ll inspire much in the way of fear and awe, wobbling up to my boot tops in a puncheon full of sea-water.”
“The sight of you may not set them to trembling, but the sight of her, in all her ferine glory, would set any sane man on the path of righteousness - my own failings in that regard, sanity, that is, being a most fortuitous deficit for the fortunes of all concerned.” Jack twirled a graceful finger in the direction from which they had come. Will was not certain whether he pointed to the Dutchman, her sharktooth silhouette looming at the harbour entrance, or to Elizabeth, crooning kingly nonsense to the baby at her breast. Either way, for once he could appreciate Jack’s logic.
Their ungainly caravan traversed a final corner in a precarious tilt, parting the waiting crowd and coming to rest beside a massive pyramid of blazing driftwood. The bulk of Shipwreck Cove’s citizenry lined the cliff face, surrounding an inner circle whose faces shifted in the firelight, battle-worn and solemn; seven of the surviving members of the fourth Brethren Court. Sumbhajee, Ammand, Villanueva, Ching, Jocard, and Chevalle had all heeded the summons of the Dutchman’s captain, and their King’s. Teague loomed against spark and flame, a sardonic gargoyle bearing the Code’s authority, its power sealed in leather and his own unyielding eye.
Jack curled wary fingers around the hilt of his sword, slipping an arm around Elizabeth as she drew close, their daughter’s warmth fluttering against his ribs. Leaning down to stroke the child’s cheek, Will pressed a kiss to his wife’s forehead before he straightened with as much dignity as his lopsided carriage allowed.
“Captain Teague, members of the Brethren Court, and all who are citizens of the Cove. A question must be asked and answered this night. Answer true and honour your word - your soul will know my guidance and safe passage to Fiddler’s Green. Answer false or break your vow - your soul will know torment and I’ll deliver you to hell myself. Are there any here who doubt my knowledge of death’s waters?”
Elizabeth heard the gathering’s denial in a rumbling tide of voices, knew her husband’s strength in the cool reassurance of his fingers, threaded between Jack’s and her own. Will Turner was no longer a blacksmith, forging human weapons from the earth’s iron and heat. He reaped the harvest of those weapons now, and held allegiance to the sea - to her, to Jack and their child. She was no longer the governor’s defiant daughter, a girl lost to revelations mirrored at the edge of the world. The Pirate King stepped forward, palm lifted in a demand for silence.
“Do all those present swear protection for the babe we name this night? Answer to me, to the Brethren, and to Calypso’s captain. Answer true, and hold to your vow.” A chorus of ‘ayes’ rang against the rocks and drifted to the water on the back of an errant breeze. Teague moved forward in a majestic glide, exchanging the Codex for his granddaughter and leaving Jack reeling beneath the weight of the Book. Elizabeth grabbed a handful of braids to tether him upright, her eyes never leaving the baby’s face as Teague lifted her gently for the Brethren’s inspection.
“What name do you give this child?” A wail arose from the woollen bunting, and Jack muttered a curse as Elizabeth’s painful hold tightened.
“The King’s daughter is Rosalind Sparrow - answer true and hold to your vow.” Jack provided a strangled undertone to the more confident response from Will and Elizabeth, echoed with enthusiasm by all those present. All, as near as Teague could determine; the future alone could give credence to the fealty of this band of thieves and beggars. The Keeper grinned, nonetheless, an alteration of scars and teeth that enchanted Rosalind, who ceased her keening and attempted to focus blue-black eyes on his moustache. His firstborn son’s firstborn, daughter of a Pirate King and a man retreived from hell’s own stronghold - surely a favourable mix of omens, and Teague seldom misread the signs.
Gibbs took charge of breaching the casks, releasing a river of rum, and the Cove’s larders gave up their bounty for the celebratory feast. At Elizabeth’s insistence, Jack retrieved his daughter from Mistress Ching’s simpering embrace, braving nails like sharpened daggers. The Chinese lord had presented the King with the same pearl earrings she had purloined during an earlier visit, and a crate of green tea “for strength and mercy.” At midnight, Will bent to Jack’s ear in whispered conference; a waving torch summoned crewmen to haul cart and barrel within reach of the lapping tide, and Teague bore the sleeping honouree home to her cradle.
“Well. Nice little garden party, that; no stabbings, no shots fired, no declarations of war - all in all a grand success as piratical gatherings go.” Jack hoisted himself to the lip of Will’s tub, dipping a jewelled finger in the water to test against the western wind.
“Warm night. Warm water. Warm...company. I’m feeling a sudden urge to bathe, boy - shift over and make room.” Will smiled, pulling Jack fully clothed into the water and against his chest, sending a wave cascading over the edge to drench Elizabeth’s hair.
“You’ll both make amends for that.” She stripped off, tossing boots and clothing out of the sea’s greedy reach; it would claim her husband soon enough, but not before this sweet reunion, not yet.
“A silvered promise, love - who chooseth me shall get as much as he or she deserves.” Jack’s mouth sought Will’s, and she could taste the wildness in it - rum and short-lived joy, defying destiny’s hammer. She undressed them both, pausing for kisses of her own, renewing acquaintance with their scars and the caress of joined fingers, sun-brown and bone-coral pale. The tub’s confines restricted movement, but they finished in a tangled curl, Elizabeth between them with Jack’s tongue tracing her spine and Will pulsing against his thigh; Jack spent last in a wash of heat across her arching back.
“Will they hold true? Keep their promise?” Jack’s heart tattooed its slowing rhythm into her ribs, and Will’s chest rose and fell against her cheek in a cold-water cadence, solace of a different sort.
“They’ll keep their fear of the locker - I’ll make certain of that, make certain the tale is spread.” Will stirred, lifting a hand to the jagged emblem of his captaincy. “The two of you, Teague - you’ll see to her safety on land.”
“Safety. And fear - thought I knew it intimately, until she was born; now fear has a whole new lexicon. Here, there be monsters.” Jack twisted Elizabeth's hair to wring it free of water, lifting the mass to brush his lips against her nape.
Twisting between them she tipped her face to the stars, swept a hand across scattered diamonds held in velvet, primeval and impervious. Her daughter would know a new world, a world beyond her imagining, full of dangers she could never foresee. Will draped an arm across Jack’s shoulders, drawing both of them closer, and she found her certainty between them.
“We’ll teach her to fight, to stare down fear; we’ll teach her what it means to be truly alive.”
“Navigation, and chart-making. I’ve developed some skill in the past two years.” Will reached to the cart bed for a tankard, throwing back his head to drain the last of the rum. Jack ran a lazy finger against the working of Will's throat, meeting Elizabeth’s gaze with eyes that spoke of shared hunger and fleeting hours.
“And I, of course, will undertake her instruction in Latin, and Greek. What?” Jack peered down his nose at her dubious expression. With his usual foresight, he had provided himself with two tankards, the second now nearly empty.
“Will can teach her swordsmanship, and the value of honesty and forth...forthrightishness; only fitting that I should see to the finer points of her education.”
“And you’ll teach her nothing of rum or trickery in the process, or I’ll see to the Nereid’s sinking myself. Dancing. She should learn to dance, and sing.” Will grinned at Elizabeth, a rare and fragile thing, awakening a fresh ache of loss. Jack distracted her with a woeful shake of his head, sending droplets of water to rain across their faces.
“Won’t learn that at her mother’s knee. Elizabeth should never, in point of fact, be encouraged to sing. Woman has the aptitude of a wounded osprey - poor mite would never forgive us the horror.”
Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me
We’re devils and black sheep and really bad eggs...
Their laughter floated across the waves, colouring the reveries of waiting souls deep in the holds of the Dutchman. Hope was a prize wrested from vengeful gods, gossamer fine and fierce as their hearts; they bound themselves with it, twined together in love and water, conspiring to cheat a curse. High above them in a splintered tower, their daughter dreamed of light and shadows. Sheltered by Teague’s ancient gaze and rippled glass that framed the heavens, she woke, and tried to catch the moon.
Author: djarum99
Rating: R
Characters: Will, Jack, Elizabeth, Teague, Murtogg and Mulroy, the Brethren, and Rosalind
Warnings: sexuality, angst with a side order of silly and unabashed sentiment
Disclaimer: The Mouse owns it all, and has made a handsome profit; I own nothing, and profit not a whit
A/N: Written for potcfest prompt #31: "Will/Elizabeth (Jack too, if you want!), the 'bucket of seawater' loophole to the 'no setting foot on land for ten years' rule" (and of course I wanted Jack :-) This probably bears no resemblance to what the prompter had in mind. A leap forward in time in the ‘verse of December’s Children - Jack, Will, Elizabeth and the citizens of Shipwreck Cove attend a naming ceremony, pirate-style.
"Why are we doing this again?” Mulroy shuffled ankle deep in recalcitrant sand, cursing each grain that had infiltrated boots and breeches. The sharp particles grated between his teeth, mingled with sweat to torment his eyes, and chafed relentlessly at his nether regions. The rope burning into his palms as he trudged uphill had proven ineffective as a counter-irritant. Murtogg, as always, was proving far better suited to that purpose.
“Because Captain Swann and Captain Sparrow ordered it, didn’t they?” Murtogg’s sunny grin remained in place despite the heat, the chafing, and the drudgery of their task. He pushed, and Mulroy pulled, wrestling their unlikely burden towards a makeshift boardwalk zigzagging from the Cove’s docks to the tide line.
“Yes, but why would they order such a thing? A bloody great tub on a bloody great cart, and ‘just haul it down to the water, and see you fill it full.’ With sea-water, no less. Why?” They had reached the splintered pathway, both of them panting as they heaved cartwheels into alignment with planks.
“For her husband, of course.” Murtogg stood back to beam at their success, leaving Mulroy to bear the cart’s full weight as it rumbled seaward.
“Hold! Hold! Damn and blast it, man, you’ve no more brains than a jellyfish. There - keep your grip just there. Can roll the thing from here. Whose husband? ”
“Captain Swann’s husband, him that isn’t Captain Sparrow, that captains the Dutchman, ferries the souls of the dead, and can’t set foot on land but once every ten years. That husband.”
“Ah - so you’re saying the captain of the Dutchman, him that isn’t Captain Sparrow, that ferries the souls of the dead, and can’t set foot on land but once every ten years, has need of a bloody great bathtub?”
“No. You’re not making any sense - must be the heat.” Murtogg’s expression shifted from beatific to kindly, as if favoring a particularly dull child.
“The Dutchman’s captain needs sea-water so as not to break the rule, doesn’t he - just up to his kneecaps should do quite nicely." Murtogg lifted both hands to illustrate the level required, sending the cart careening down the shingle with Mulroy galloping between its shafts, bellowing something about jellyfish and pummeling. At the water’s edge the cart gave one final lurch, sending its spluttering beast of burden face first into the waves.
Murtogg shook his head, a brief frown falling victim to his perpetual good cheer. “No sense at all.”
~
“I feel completely ridiculous.” Death’s master on the seas stood swaying in a sloshing tub of brine, clutching Jack’s shoulder for balance. Eight of the Nereid’s crew now laboured between the slats, heaving the cart uphill towards a circled cluster of boulders. A hidden blaze limned their granite outlines with fire and sent a column of gilded smoke billowing towards the stars.
“You do look a right ponce, Captain Turner - rather like a giant gherkin, truth be told, prompting all manner of salty metaphors I’d currently prefer not to explore, out of respect for the auspicious occasion. However, a little honest self-assessment is good for the soul, mate, assuming you’re still in possession of said slippery metaphysical construct. Are you?” Jack tipped a grin from beneath Will’s elbow, gold and ivory in the torchlight.
“I must be, or I’d not feel the peril of its loss whenever I cross paths with you.” Jack's grin broadened, but he lifted a hand to grip Will’s forearm, steadying him as the wheels stuttered over rocky terrain. Behind them, Elizabeth’s voice murmured reassurance to the swaddled bundle in her arms, the thief of all their hearts and the reason behind this night’s madness. Three months old, the legacy of her mother’s will and her father’s fey charm shining clear in tiny fists, moonbright eyes, and a sable wealth of hair.
“Do you truly believe this ceremony will serve its purpose, Jack? Somehow I doubt that I’ll inspire much in the way of fear and awe, wobbling up to my boot tops in a puncheon full of sea-water.”
“The sight of you may not set them to trembling, but the sight of her, in all her ferine glory, would set any sane man on the path of righteousness - my own failings in that regard, sanity, that is, being a most fortuitous deficit for the fortunes of all concerned.” Jack twirled a graceful finger in the direction from which they had come. Will was not certain whether he pointed to the Dutchman, her sharktooth silhouette looming at the harbour entrance, or to Elizabeth, crooning kingly nonsense to the baby at her breast. Either way, for once he could appreciate Jack’s logic.
Their ungainly caravan traversed a final corner in a precarious tilt, parting the waiting crowd and coming to rest beside a massive pyramid of blazing driftwood. The bulk of Shipwreck Cove’s citizenry lined the cliff face, surrounding an inner circle whose faces shifted in the firelight, battle-worn and solemn; seven of the surviving members of the fourth Brethren Court. Sumbhajee, Ammand, Villanueva, Ching, Jocard, and Chevalle had all heeded the summons of the Dutchman’s captain, and their King’s. Teague loomed against spark and flame, a sardonic gargoyle bearing the Code’s authority, its power sealed in leather and his own unyielding eye.
Jack curled wary fingers around the hilt of his sword, slipping an arm around Elizabeth as she drew close, their daughter’s warmth fluttering against his ribs. Leaning down to stroke the child’s cheek, Will pressed a kiss to his wife’s forehead before he straightened with as much dignity as his lopsided carriage allowed.
“Captain Teague, members of the Brethren Court, and all who are citizens of the Cove. A question must be asked and answered this night. Answer true and honour your word - your soul will know my guidance and safe passage to Fiddler’s Green. Answer false or break your vow - your soul will know torment and I’ll deliver you to hell myself. Are there any here who doubt my knowledge of death’s waters?”
Elizabeth heard the gathering’s denial in a rumbling tide of voices, knew her husband’s strength in the cool reassurance of his fingers, threaded between Jack’s and her own. Will Turner was no longer a blacksmith, forging human weapons from the earth’s iron and heat. He reaped the harvest of those weapons now, and held allegiance to the sea - to her, to Jack and their child. She was no longer the governor’s defiant daughter, a girl lost to revelations mirrored at the edge of the world. The Pirate King stepped forward, palm lifted in a demand for silence.
“Do all those present swear protection for the babe we name this night? Answer to me, to the Brethren, and to Calypso’s captain. Answer true, and hold to your vow.” A chorus of ‘ayes’ rang against the rocks and drifted to the water on the back of an errant breeze. Teague moved forward in a majestic glide, exchanging the Codex for his granddaughter and leaving Jack reeling beneath the weight of the Book. Elizabeth grabbed a handful of braids to tether him upright, her eyes never leaving the baby’s face as Teague lifted her gently for the Brethren’s inspection.
“What name do you give this child?” A wail arose from the woollen bunting, and Jack muttered a curse as Elizabeth’s painful hold tightened.
“The King’s daughter is Rosalind Sparrow - answer true and hold to your vow.” Jack provided a strangled undertone to the more confident response from Will and Elizabeth, echoed with enthusiasm by all those present. All, as near as Teague could determine; the future alone could give credence to the fealty of this band of thieves and beggars. The Keeper grinned, nonetheless, an alteration of scars and teeth that enchanted Rosalind, who ceased her keening and attempted to focus blue-black eyes on his moustache. His firstborn son’s firstborn, daughter of a Pirate King and a man retreived from hell’s own stronghold - surely a favourable mix of omens, and Teague seldom misread the signs.
Gibbs took charge of breaching the casks, releasing a river of rum, and the Cove’s larders gave up their bounty for the celebratory feast. At Elizabeth’s insistence, Jack retrieved his daughter from Mistress Ching’s simpering embrace, braving nails like sharpened daggers. The Chinese lord had presented the King with the same pearl earrings she had purloined during an earlier visit, and a crate of green tea “for strength and mercy.” At midnight, Will bent to Jack’s ear in whispered conference; a waving torch summoned crewmen to haul cart and barrel within reach of the lapping tide, and Teague bore the sleeping honouree home to her cradle.
“Well. Nice little garden party, that; no stabbings, no shots fired, no declarations of war - all in all a grand success as piratical gatherings go.” Jack hoisted himself to the lip of Will’s tub, dipping a jewelled finger in the water to test against the western wind.
“Warm night. Warm water. Warm...company. I’m feeling a sudden urge to bathe, boy - shift over and make room.” Will smiled, pulling Jack fully clothed into the water and against his chest, sending a wave cascading over the edge to drench Elizabeth’s hair.
“You’ll both make amends for that.” She stripped off, tossing boots and clothing out of the sea’s greedy reach; it would claim her husband soon enough, but not before this sweet reunion, not yet.
“A silvered promise, love - who chooseth me shall get as much as he or she deserves.” Jack’s mouth sought Will’s, and she could taste the wildness in it - rum and short-lived joy, defying destiny’s hammer. She undressed them both, pausing for kisses of her own, renewing acquaintance with their scars and the caress of joined fingers, sun-brown and bone-coral pale. The tub’s confines restricted movement, but they finished in a tangled curl, Elizabeth between them with Jack’s tongue tracing her spine and Will pulsing against his thigh; Jack spent last in a wash of heat across her arching back.
“Will they hold true? Keep their promise?” Jack’s heart tattooed its slowing rhythm into her ribs, and Will’s chest rose and fell against her cheek in a cold-water cadence, solace of a different sort.
“They’ll keep their fear of the locker - I’ll make certain of that, make certain the tale is spread.” Will stirred, lifting a hand to the jagged emblem of his captaincy. “The two of you, Teague - you’ll see to her safety on land.”
“Safety. And fear - thought I knew it intimately, until she was born; now fear has a whole new lexicon. Here, there be monsters.” Jack twisted Elizabeth's hair to wring it free of water, lifting the mass to brush his lips against her nape.
Twisting between them she tipped her face to the stars, swept a hand across scattered diamonds held in velvet, primeval and impervious. Her daughter would know a new world, a world beyond her imagining, full of dangers she could never foresee. Will draped an arm across Jack’s shoulders, drawing both of them closer, and she found her certainty between them.
“We’ll teach her to fight, to stare down fear; we’ll teach her what it means to be truly alive.”
“Navigation, and chart-making. I’ve developed some skill in the past two years.” Will reached to the cart bed for a tankard, throwing back his head to drain the last of the rum. Jack ran a lazy finger against the working of Will's throat, meeting Elizabeth’s gaze with eyes that spoke of shared hunger and fleeting hours.
“And I, of course, will undertake her instruction in Latin, and Greek. What?” Jack peered down his nose at her dubious expression. With his usual foresight, he had provided himself with two tankards, the second now nearly empty.
“Will can teach her swordsmanship, and the value of honesty and forth...forthrightishness; only fitting that I should see to the finer points of her education.”
“And you’ll teach her nothing of rum or trickery in the process, or I’ll see to the Nereid’s sinking myself. Dancing. She should learn to dance, and sing.” Will grinned at Elizabeth, a rare and fragile thing, awakening a fresh ache of loss. Jack distracted her with a woeful shake of his head, sending droplets of water to rain across their faces.
“Won’t learn that at her mother’s knee. Elizabeth should never, in point of fact, be encouraged to sing. Woman has the aptitude of a wounded osprey - poor mite would never forgive us the horror.”
Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me
We’re devils and black sheep and really bad eggs...
Their laughter floated across the waves, colouring the reveries of waiting souls deep in the holds of the Dutchman. Hope was a prize wrested from vengeful gods, gossamer fine and fierce as their hearts; they bound themselves with it, twined together in love and water, conspiring to cheat a curse. High above them in a splintered tower, their daughter dreamed of light and shadows. Sheltered by Teague’s ancient gaze and rippled glass that framed the heavens, she woke, and tried to catch the moon.