Fic: A Priori, C.4
Title: A Priori
Chapter 4: Something Wicked
Rating: N17
Pairing: J/E
Disclaimer: They belong to Disney and the deep blue sea
A/N: Jack and Elizabeth, prelude to a bit of the supernatural and illusionist’s tricks; treasure, and jealousy. Thanks to
erinya again for the skillful beta and to
writing_samsara for the concrit. Another small tribute included here to The Libertine for those who caught "I like to put it 'round, you know" in Bordello, although this is, of course, the wrong century. X-posted to
pirategasm and
sparrabeth.
Elizabeth had returned to their cabin at midnight in a pleasant state of exhaustion. Throughout her watch, her body had provided remembrance of the night’s earlier activities in the form of still singing nerves and heightened senses. Loving Jack Sparrow had brought her to a new state of being, alive with awareness and possibility.
When Elizabeth entered, Jack was seated at the charting table before a detailed map of Madagascar’s coast line. He was staring at the quill he twirled in slender fingers, his face pensive. Clearly, his mood had changed since she left him in a satisfied sprawl amidst the bedclothes just hours prior. This part of their intimacy was as new as their lovemaking. She had no template for sharing life’s small moments with a man, certainly not a man like Jack. Her quiet joy in it sounded a parallel chord to the wild song their bodies made.
He smiled at her, dropped the quill and rubbed a jeweled hand across his face. Coming to stand behind him she tentatively raised her hands to his shoulders and began to knead against the tension. He leaned into her, resting his head between her breasts and covering her hands with his own; she increased the pressure. “That’s good, love, don’t stop.”
At length he turned, reached for her and pulled her down into his lap. His voice was soft but his eyes were sharp on her face, judging her response. “Lizzie. I… these ventures, especially on land - for me, they don’t always go as planned; you’ve heard the stories. Might be best for you to remain with Gibbs in charge of the Pearl, a better logistic, a…just better. ”
“Those stories always end with you managing to make it come right, more or less. I’m part of the story now, Jack.” She felt the stirrings of anger, but read something in his eyes that she wanted to understand before engaging in verbal swordplay.
“Some of those stories didn’t end that way, Lizzie. You see the results on my skin each night; you’ve heard those tales as well. If luck runs out for me again, with you beside me, the best that can happen is that you watch me die. The worst…I can’t, Bess. This isn’t legend. I want you with me and I want you a world away from this life. A good man would have seen you safe.” He shifted her to straddle his thighs, lifted a hand to slip across her cheek, through her hair.
“Of course I’m going tomorrow, it’s what we planned. And safe? Where is that?” She stroked the thin scar that ran through his right eyebrow, trailed her fingers down the planes of his face. She knew his fears. Her own lay always beneath life’s bright surface; she had stolen him from death itself, would always fear death’s jealous return. “My mother was only twenty-four when she died of fever; yours must have been younger when she died in childbed. I’ve already watched you die, Jack. I want to watch you live, will pay any price for it. The choice is made. We go on from here.” She watched the struggle play across his face, watched him surrender.
Jack buried his hands in her hair, kissed her gently. He drew back, dark eyes holding hers. “Love and chains, Bess. You’re right, the choice is made. Come to bed, to sleep. No coin left on the nightstand, my sweet; even whores need their rest.” His grin was wicked but weary, eyes shadowed by smudged kohl and fatigue. He stood when she did without releasing her. “I’m a selfish man, more of that than I am a coward. I love you, Lizzie, and nothing’s ever frightened me more.” He kissed her again, took his time with it, made a promise of it. She found her touchstone in the pulse at his throat, whispered, “I love you, Jack Sparrow.”
He doused the lamps as she undressed; shed his own clothing and slid into bed, pulled her close. She floated into sleep as the Pearl murmured and drifted against her anchor, offered her night music to them both.
~
Beauvais’ Le Faucon d’Argent sailed in serene tandem with the Pearl, a contrast to the majestic stature of Jack’s ebony prize. True to her name, the smaller ship appeared to float above crested waves that gleamed like angel’s wings in the morning sun. They would reach the mouth of the Mananjary by early afternoon. There they would leave the Pearl in Gibb’s hands and travel upriver aboard the schooner. Kalé, Ragetti, Jacob, and a select group of the Caribbean freemen would accompany them. While he granted a wary confidence to Jean-Luc, Jack found no reason to trust the French crew “far enough to spit on them” as he put it. He wanted to leave the Pearl well attended while ensuring their party had numbers enough to guard against treachery.
Jack posed in dramatic stance, regaling the crew working the deck with the story of a former encounter with the Betsimisaraka. Highlighted with graceful diagrams elegantly drawn against the backdrop of the sky, his tale concluded with a verbal arabesque. “Their king was so overwhelmed with gratitude, he awarded me first option on the virginity of his seven daughters - an offer I did not avail myself of, none of them being lighter than the Pearl’s anchor - twenty goats, a cage filled with songbirds -local delicacy, I’m told, got loose and created havoc in the galley- and the contents of the Spaniard’s holds. The last saw us through the Atlantic and into the Caribbean in aristocratic style.”
Elizabeth worked beside Gibbs, supervising the final preparation of supplies and weaponry. He turned to offer a smile, looking little older or more uncouth than she remembered him as a child. “Ye look well, Elizabeth, happy; the life suits, eh?”
She returned his smile; recalled with wry amusement the tales he had told her, taking care that her father was not in earshot. Tales of ghosts, dark magic, and piracy; tales of Captain Jack Sparrow and his Pearl. And here she stood, aboard that infamous ship; the legend’s lover and a pirate in her own right, no longer her father’s child. She turned her face into the caress of wind and sun, the glory of the day.
They reached the Mananjary in good time, loaded their supplies onto Beauvais’ silver bird. The French captain's sharp-toothed grin sparkled with anticipation. The Pearl was left in Gibbs' charge. Jack had filled his ears with last-minute instructions regarding her defense should the need arise.The schooner sailed inland into an African sun, her crew stealing surreptitious looks at her boarders. Elizabeth stared boldly back. Jean-Luc bellowed orders in French that sent them scurrying to their posts. He escorted Jack and Elizabeth proudly around his ship, ending in his cabin. Producing a bottle of a rather fine burgundy and elegant thin-stemmed goblets, he offered a toast to their adventure - “Bonne chance à nous, mes amis ; bonne chance et bonne chasse.”
Jack raised his glass in return; “Sur Dieu et le diable, versez à chacun son dû et ne risquez aucune offense." His eyes held a familiar glint, one Elizabeth remembered seeing there in the caverns of Isla de Muerta. The thrill she had felt then had undertones of disloyalty; now she felt it reflected in her own.
"À de nouvelles entreprises, de nouveaux amis, et tout ce qui s'est passé auparavant." She raised her glass and drank, the wine tasting of golden hillsides, berries and smoke. Jack met her gaze, read her excitement and acquiesced to it; she was full partner in this.
Ashawa met them at a point an hour inland, where the river widened and became progressively shallower. Beauvais gave orders to make anchor, and gathered his own small party and their supplies. The river bank’s smooth gray stones gave way almost immediately to multicolored foliage. Plants ranging in size from squat leathery ferns to swaying giant palms grew in exotic variation above a grassy floor. Trees reached for sunlight with delicately scaled trunks and jade projections resembling snake’s tongues. Some of the branches cradled orchids that nestled in their hollows, petals glowing with the radiance of a child’s skin, tipped in the bright hues of sunset. Birds wearing colors that echoed the flowers’ brilliance blended their song into pleasant cacophony. A barely discernible trail wound through the undergrowth, fading into dim light that shifted and fluttered with unseen life.
“Manao ahoana.” Ashawa was a small man of indeterminate age, the lines of laughter around his eyes and mouth still as he solemnly surveyed the landing party. Jack spoke a few words to him in Malagasy, gestured towards the trail. Ashawa beckoned and they fell into line behind him, their footfalls swallowed in birdsong and shadows.
~
Ashawa had led them for over an hour, deeper into a landscape that seemed to change with each bend of the trail. Some spaces were filled with trees resembling those Elizabeth dimly remembered from an English childhood. Others contained spiky, monstrous anomalies of another time, eons distant. These gave way to clusters of what Beauvais, walking at her side, called baobab - towering trunks crowned with fine crests of lacy olive leaves. Jacob slipped off the trail every few steps to investigate the tree’s inhabitants. He found a peacock-blue lizard to ride on his shoulder, and an enormous obsidian-armored insect that buzzed angrily at the intrusion and flew off on iridescent wings.
Jean-Luc responded readily to her question regarding how a Frenchman came to crew with Jack on an English ship. “I was born, as they say, on the wrong side of the blanket; my mother was French, with a French husband who was unaware that his bed had a third occupant. My father was an English earl of some ill repute. I believe she met him in a London theater while on an extended visit. I was sixteen before my mother’s husband belatedly discovered his cuckolded state. She sent me in haste to England to the country estate of some distant cousins. I found I was a poor fit to their household, and sought my fortune on the sea six months later. Jack Sparrow was first mate on the merchant ship that took me on.”
She questioned him about those years; he responded taking great delight in embellishment and detail, his stories paralleling some of what she knew from Jack. As they walked he drew closer, frequently touching her hand or placing his on her arm for emphasis. Elizabeth noticed Jack casting increasingly darker looks over his shoulder across the few feet that separated them, and hid a smile. As she rounded a particularly sharp turn her foot struck a twisted root hidden in the grass, and she pitched forward. Jean-Luc neatly caught her up, pulling her against him and holding her there several beats longer than necessary. Then Jack was beside her, snaking an arm around her waist before she could protest. Beauvais’ eyes danced with humor. He released her and made an elegant gesture conveying apology to them both.
“Forgive me, mes amis; it is force of habit, you see, my behavior with beautiful women. One I am sure Jack can understand, and one I hope you do as well, Elizabeth.” He saluted with a lazy hand and moved ahead with his long-legged stride to take Jack’s place next to Ashawa.
“Force of habit, me arse; never could resist forbidden fruit, that one, or another man’s prize. He’ll play fair enough, I’ll grant him that; his thievery is always open-handed.” Jack’s scowl was only midway to deadly, but she could see a hint of real fire in his eyes.
“Prize? Forbidden fruit? I don’t believe I fancy those labels in the least, and I’m perfectly capable of defending myself.” Thoroughly annoyed with them both, and knowing Jean-Luc’s “habit” to be a calculated one, she was nevertheless secretly enjoying its effect.
“Aye, you most certainly are; all the more reason for me to step in, love. Hate to see a man divested of his most precious fruit by the blade of a pirate Circe.” His smile flashed gold and a hint of feline warning, a tiger’s grin that only half concealed the sharp threat beneath it. Elizabeth was torn between anger and delight; she was no man’s possession, and did not truly believe he considered her as such. His reaction lightened her step nonetheless.
They arrived at last at what appeared to be a natural clearing, containing perhaps a dozen circular thatched structures. Ashawa had explained that this was a sacred place, used only for the marriage rites. Zahul’s family, and the groom’s, lived some distance to the north. A group of Malagasy some four dozen in number awaited them, wearing traditional formal clothing. Draped in elegantly woven and embroidered cloth, the men were bare to the waist and the women’s breasts were concealed only by a thin layer wound around their upper bodies.
Introductions to the bridal party identified Zahul, his wife and daughters, the bride and groom and his family. Zahul carried himself like the king he was, eyes the color of river stones a startling contrast to his dark complexion. A woman Elizabeth understood to be the groom’s mother approached her as she stood at Jack’s side. She was lovely; her finely lined mahogany skin offered no distraction from the sloe-eyed, exquisitely drawn beauty of her face. She studied Elizabeth in her male attire carefully, and then scrutinized Jack with equal intensity. After speaking to him at length in a melodic low tone, she held them both in her gaze for a moment, and returned to her husband’s side.
Elizabeth turned to him, asked what had been said. He dropped his eyes, appeared to search for words; uncharacteristic behavior that told her the encounter had taken him aback. “Malani, she said…she said ‘we love.’ She said we are fire and water, each necessary to the other; said together we form a circle, destruction and rebirth, sun and storm. Also mentioned a gift she has for you, Bess; not sure what she meant by that.” Elizabeth turned towards the older woman, wondering; saw her smile and nod, a beatific sibyl.
They were led to place where a wedding feast was arrayed across the grass-seafood, fruit, breads, roast game, and a variety of unidentified foods in wooden serving dishes. The rest of the afternoon was spent exchanging delicacies and halting conversation. Even Kalé relaxed his warrior’s stance, and Jacob set to entertaining the younger members of the assembly with a story of piracy. His audience appeared to understand the highlights, at least, aided by Jacob’s Sparrowesque gesture and swagger. His captain made no attempt to hide his appreciation of the abundant feminine charms scarcely concealed from view.
Jack and Ashawa provided translation as best they could, and the rest of the group made do with mime. Elizabeth thought of her own ill-fated wedding with a dim pang; thought of Will with a sharper ache. He would have loved the strange magic of this. The pain of missing him was bearable now, familiar company for her memories.
Dusk settled like a slow mist over the encampment; the guests stirred, made ready for the ceremony. Zahul approached, handed Jack a folded length of black cloth similar to his own garment, and pointed out a small hut at the edge of the clearing. Jack took her hand and pulled her up with him; Zahul raised an eyebrow but made no protest.
The darkness inside the windowless hut was absolute; before she could feel her way forward, Jack had pulled her close and was deftly removing her shirt, his mouth seeking the soft skin below her ear. She felt his hard length pressing against her belly, demanding release. “Jack, there are at least fifty people out there, they’ll hear us. Not to mention that you’re only hard from leering at all of those half-naked women.”
“Not with my hand on your mouth; and only a little; only because you’re here, watching me watch them. Please, Lizzie, can’t you feel it? This is an old place, a powerful place, need to take you in it, please, love.” She surrendered. She could feel it, something beneath the surface of its pagan beauty. The heat building within her seemed to arise from the living ground itself, as much as from his touch. His lips and tongue found her breasts, drew her nipples to peaks as they both fought the confines of leather and breeches. He fell to his knees, pulled her down to straddle him and opened her with insistent fingers. Entering her in one smooth thrust, he covered her gasp with a hard palm. Grasping her hip with his free hand, he moved them both into a desperate rhythm underscored by the nearby hum of voices outside.
The velvet blackness amplified her other senses; touch, taste, scent and sound. The sinuous play of muscle beneath his skin, the earthy fragrance of her own arousal, the tandem pounding of their hearts sent her soaring into a mystery. His mouth tasted of rain and twilight; his whispered curse sent her higher, made her fall. She felt the sting of his teeth sinking into her shoulder as he shuddered, moaned into her flesh.
He held her until she found her way back and their breathing slowed; helped her locate discarded clothing. He left his own on the hut’s floor; she could hear the rustle of fabric as he wound Zahul’s black material around his lower body. “The play is about to begin, love;” he spoke low, lips against her ear. “Be prepared for some smoke and mirrors, and be ready with your blade.” He slipped out before she could question this; she adjusted her sword, and checked the knife in her boot. When she stepped into the clearing and entered a now swirling mass of humanity, he had disappeared from view.
http://djarum99.livejournal.com/7049.html#cutid1 C.5 - "Nothing Sacred"
*“Bonne chance à nous, mes amis ; bonne chance et bonne chasse.” - “Good luck to us, my friends, good luck and good hunting.”
“Sur Dieu et le diable, versez à chacun son dû et ne risquez aucune offense."
.” - “To God and the Devil, pay each his due and risk no offense.”
“À de nouvelles entreprises, de nouveaux amis, et tout ce qui s'est passé auparavant." - “To new ventures, new friends, and all that came before.”
“Manao ahoana” - hello