PotC Big Bang Fic: "Liberties" (1/7)
Title: "Liberties" (1/7)
Author: Luvvycat
Art: shytan
Characters/Pairings: Young Will Turner/Young Elizabeth Swann, Weatherby Swann; Elizabeth Swann Turner/Jack Sparrow (epilogue)
Rating: PG13/Soft R (at most!)
Warnings: Flashbacks to violent events in Prologue; minor sexual suggestiveness in Epilogue; everything else in-between is fairly mild.
Summary: After young Will Turner is rescued from the sea, Governor Swann (at Elizabeth’s suggestion) instals him as a servant in the Swann household. Despite their differences in station, the children find that they have much in common, and become fast friends. For two years the bond between Will and Elizabeth grows stronger, until an act of innocent impulse threatens to end that friendship and separate the pair forever. Based on my previously-posted drabbles "Skirmish", "Resurrected", and "The Gift". The J/E Epilogue is set six years after the conclusion of AWE.
A/N: Dedicated with my most profuse thanks and boundless admiration to my beta extraordinaire geekmama (whose invaluable input greatly improved this tale), and to pearlseed , whose comments to me regarding "Skirmish" inspired the Epilogue.
Prologue
The last thing he recalled was fire ... fire, paralysing fear, and a great percussive sound like a clap of thunder, only a hundred times louder, a hundred times more fierce ... fiery dragon's breath searing him through his clothing, intense heat licking at his back ...
And falling ...
Falling through chokingly thick air that reeked of gunpowder and woodsmoke, culminating in a breath-taking plunge into freezing wet darkness ... numbing cold, threading its way through his limbs and his veins and the marrow of his bones like icy tendrils of death, plucking at his labouring heart and burning lungs with a raptor's claws, siphoning the warmth from his flesh, stealing bit by bit the very life from his body ...
Then, rising buoyantly, bursting free of the sea's womb to blessed, breathable air and pallid daylight ... the impact of something hard against his shoulder ... his insensate fingers scrabbling at splintered wood as he painfully hauled himself with the last of his strength onto something that bobbed and rode the surface of the water like a cork ... the solid feel of planks against his back as he weakly rolled over, turning his face to a grey-misted sky which filled his vision like a blank canvas painted in the devil's own palette by a madman's hand: swaths of crimson flame edged in orange-gold, swirling smudges of charcoal, billowing soot-black ...
And, finally, darkness, swallowing him up ...
* * * * *
The next thing of which he was conscious was a feathery touch upon his brow.
He gasped with sudden awareness as his eyes snapped open, panic lending the boy a man's strength as his right arm lashed out, his sea-cold fingers wrapping around soft, warm flesh, delicate bones shifting beneath his vice-like grip, eliciting a gasp which echoed his own.
His eyes slowly focused on a face hovering above him, nearly lost in the pearly grey light of the sky beyond it. A pale oval framed by a nimbus of tawny blonde hair, wide eyes like dark amber gemstones set in ivory.
Was he dead? Was this a heavenly guide, come to lead him to paradise ... some seraph sent to take him to his mother?
The vision spoke:
"It's okay ..." Welcome warmth enclosed his hand as the shining apparition took it between hers. "My name's Elizabeth Swann ..."
The voice was gentle, calming, reassuring ...
Beautiful ...
As he stared, the face came into sharper focus ... a pretty face, an angel's face, looking upon him with concern.
Elizabeth Swann ... Elizabeth Swann ... his mind chanted her name like a psalm as he struggled for breath to speak.
"W-Will ..." he finally was able to get out past trembling, blue-tinged lips. "Will Turner ..."
The lovely creature smiled at him, and he knew then for certain he was in Heaven. "I'm watching over you, Will."
I'm watching over you ...
Yes ...
He fell back, and surrendered himself again to the welcoming arms of blessed oblivion, secure in the knowledge that his own, personal guardian angel ...
Elizabeth Swann ...
... would take him under her wing, keep him safe ...
* * * * *
Awareness returned to the feel of gentle fingers threading through his hair ... the smell of hot candlewax, not charred wood, tickling his nostrils ... a soft mattress at his back rather than wet, bobbing boards, and the warmth of a thin woollen blanket spread over him instead of a grey, smoky sky arcing above him.
Flooded with relief, he smiled, still half-asleep. It had all been a dream - a terrible, terrifying dream - and he was safe in his bed, back in England.
Back home…
He drew a breath, and again marked the scent of a candle. He sighed, and his eyes slitted open, just a crack.
Flickering phantoms of shadow and light were cast against the dark walls of the tiny room. A bright flame floated above him and, beyond it, dark, somewhat familiar eyes glittered in a pale, feminine face. Details were temporarily obscured by the hole burnt into his vision by the searing tongue of fire, but her presence calmed him, as only one other person had been able to in his young life.
His sleepy smile widened further. "Mum?" he murmured. The hand stilled in his hair, and he reached up, snared it, drew it to his lips for a kiss, then pressed it to his cheek. "Oh, Mum ... you won't believe the nightmares I've had!"
The hand trembled upon his cheek ... a hand, he gradually realised, too small, too soft to be his mother's. Mama's hand was larger, her palm and the tips of her long fingers callused with the manual labours of a woman who had worked for over a decade to support a growing child and maintain a modest home, with only sporadic support from her absent husband. He became aware of other incongruities as well, that bespoke not an abode securely bound to terra firma, but a vessel borne upon the sea: the telltale creak of a ship's timbers, the sway and roll of a hull navigating choppy waters.
And he began to remember ...
Working passage as a cabin boy aboard the merchant ship Sally Mae ...
Watching a black galleon with black sails appear out of the fog ...
The roar of cannonfire ...
Cowering in a dark niche, hiding as a horde of raggedy pirates swarmed the deck, slaughtering the crew and passengers, emptying the Sally Mae's hold of its cargo, transferring it with methodical efficiency to the black-sailed ship under the watchful eye and booming voice of her captain, glimpsed in silhouette only against the greying sky: a tall, imposing man in a wide-brimmed, plumed hat...
Then, more cannonfire, and a huge explosion as the Sally Mae disintegrated into a massive ball of fire, blazing splinters, and fluttering kites of singed canvas...
He pushed those nightmare images away, and recalled, as though a distant memory, what had followed ...
His rescue from the sea ... Lord, had it only been today?
Then, being peppered by a barrage of questions that seemed to never end, posed persistently to him by a succession of men in red coats, blue coats ...
And, again, that sweet face he had seen peering down at him.
Had she only been a dream?
He closed his eyes and let his vision clear, the afterimage of the flame fading against his shut eyelids, before he opened them again ...
Looked up ...
Caught his breath ...
She was there.
Elizabeth Swann ...
His angel, his saviour ... delicate features gilded by the candle's soft glow, shining dark eyes alive with slivers of reflected flame, her hair a golden-bright halo around that lovely face.
Though he had released her hand, her palm remained warm against his cheek.
And when she spoke, her voice was as beautiful, as gentle as he remembered it.
"Will ... Will Turner ... are you all right?" Her hand moved at last, but only to tentatively stroke his cheek. "Is there anything you need? Anything I can get for you? Food? Water?"
He closed his eyes. Shook his head. No. He didn't think anything would ever be all right again. And what he needed was not sustenance, but forgetfulness ... peace ...
Home ...
She removed her hand from his face, and he felt suddenly bereft.
Her voice came, soft and sweet, in the dark. "Would ... would you like me to go? Would you prefer to be alone?"
Alone ...
He recalled what he had overheard earlier, when he was being questioned ...
"... the last one alive ... the lone survivor ..."
"... bloody pirates ...!"
"... might he be one ...?"
His heart lurched in panic, and his eyes snapped open. "No!" he gasped, his voice a hoarse plea. "No! Please ... stay!"
She nodded her head, turned to set down her candle, confined in its glass-and-brass cage, on a tiny table that appeared to be one of the few other pieces of furniture in the minuscule cabin.
By the wan illumination of the single candle flame he was able to see that the room contained two narrow cots, barely long enough to accommodate a boy Will's size, let alone the grown men who would normally be expected to occupy this cabin. The tiny table was wedged between the cots, and two modest-sized sea-chests (no doubt belonging to the cabin's original occupants) took up nearly the entirety of the remaining floor-space.
Elizabeth perched on the edge of the other bed, staring at his face with large, sympathetic eyes. "You ... you called for your mother. Would you like me to write a letter to her for you? To let her know you're all right? I'm sure my father can arrange for one to be sent-"
"No," he interrupted, with a grimace of soul-deep pain. "She's ..." His throat tightened as still-fresh grief washed over him, and it was an effort not to weep, "... she's dead."
"Oh!" Elizabeth breathed, eyes widening, her mouth a round "o" of sympathy. "Was she ..." She bit her lip, hesitated, a look of sorrow on her face. "Was she on the ship that was ... attacked?"
Will swallowed, and shook his head. "No ... she died a few months ago ... back in England."
As he watched, Elizabeth's eyes seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. "Mine, too," she all but whispered. "When I was five."
"Oh!" he echoed her earlier exclamation, then, seeing her sadness, and emboldened by a sudden need to comfort her, he reached out to lay his hand upon hers, where it rested on her knee. "I ... I'm so sorry."
She looked down, sighing deeply, and he felt a wet splash upon the back of his hand. When she looked up again he could see the liquid shine of her eyes, the tiny droplets that dewed her eyelashes. "It's all right ... I still have my father." She sniffed and, composing herself, looked directly into his eyes. "And you?"
He shrugged, and tried not to let her tears call forth his own. "I haven't heard from my father in nearly two years. Not since his last letter to me, and the gift he enclosed with it..." His hand strayed to his throat, unconsciously feeling for a chain that was no longer there, searching the inside of his shirt in vain for the medallion.
"It's gone!" His face fell. "I must have lost it when I fell into the water ..." Likely dislodged during his plunge into the sea, he supposed that the medallion now rested somewhere at the bottom of the ocean.
"That is why I left on the Sally Mae, after Mum died. I want to find my father. I learned that the ship that carried his last letter to me came from the Caribbean, so I thought it best I begin my search there." He looked down. "I'm afraid, though..." his voice quavered a bit, "that he may be dead as well."
She was gazing at him with a strange, unreadable expression. "Was your father a ... a pirate?" Elizabeth asked him, tentatively.
His eyes fixed on hers, suddenly smouldering with outraged anger. "Of course not! He was a merchant sailor ... a good man. Not a murdering, thieving pirate!"
She looked somewhat disappointed, then immediately apologetic. "I'm sorry ... I didn't mean to imply that he was not a good man. There are some pirates, after all, that are still good men ..."
"He was not a pirate!" he almost shouted. "He was ... is ... an honest, hard-working sailor!"
She seemed distressed at having upset him, patted his hand reassuringly. "Of course. I'm sorry. Please be still." She glanced apprehensively at the cabin's door. "Or the guard will come in, and I'll have to go ..."
No. He didn't want her to go!
He snatched his hand out from under hers, mildly embarrassed. "Beg pardon, Miss Swann-"
"Elizabeth ..." she interjected.
"Elizabeth ..." he tested the sound of her name on his tongue, upon his lips, "... may I ask... why are you here?"
She smiled again, and it was like the sun rising, flooding the tiny cabin with warmth and light. "My father placed you in my care. And no man aboard would dare countermand the order of a crown-appointed Governor, so when I told the guard I had come to tend to you, at my father's bidding, he had little choice but to let me in."
He frowned as the implications of her words sunk in. "Am I under arrest, then?"
"Oh, no!" she was quick to respond. "Well ... there is a guard stationed at your door, but I am assured by Lieutenant Norrington that it is only for your own safety and protection. After all, you have been quite ill all day."
He closed his eyes, sighed, and nodded. "Right."
"Are you certain you wouldn't like some food, or water …?"
"I doubt I could keep anything down, at present," he said, weakly. Behind his closed eyelids, he saw again the Captain of the Sally Mae, falling bonelessly to the deck, his throat slit, bright blood gushing across the wet boards ...
He felt again her hand upon his, her touch at his brow. "Would you like to ... to talk? About what happened?"
His eyes snapped open, and he shook his head emphatically: No! What he could tell her was not fit for the ears of a gently-bred young lady such as she!
"Would you like me to read to you? I could fetch a book from my cabin ..."
"No, thank you," he said.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked, regarding him with a pleading expression, a hint of frustration colouring her tone.
"Will you ...?" He hesitated, feeling his face heat with embarrassment.
"Will I ...?" she prompted, tilting her head slightly in query, and he found even that little motion quite a lovely thing, graceful and elegant like the bird whose name she bore.
"Will you ... will you stay with me, until I fall asleep?" he barely whispered, and was shamed to hear the tremor of fear in his voice. She must think him a base coward, or a babe in need of coddling.
But she only smiled gently, her eyes reflecting not a trace of contempt: only empathy and tender concern.
"Of course! If you'd like, I ... " She paused, and he thought he saw her blush slightly, but it might have been only a trick of the lighting. "I can sing to you."
He smiled back, gratefully. "Yes. That would be quite nice, I think."
And as he lay back upon his pillow, comforted by the candlelight and her reassuring presence, she softly started to sing. His heart panged with poignant memory as he recognised the song as one his own mother used to croon to him, years ago.
Lulled by her sweet voice, and the soothing rocking of the ship, he allowed his eyes to slip shut, and fell into the first truly peaceful sleep he had enjoyed since leaving England ...
Author: Luvvycat
Art: shytan
Characters/Pairings: Young Will Turner/Young Elizabeth Swann, Weatherby Swann; Elizabeth Swann Turner/Jack Sparrow (epilogue)
Rating: PG13/Soft R (at most!)
Warnings: Flashbacks to violent events in Prologue; minor sexual suggestiveness in Epilogue; everything else in-between is fairly mild.
Summary: After young Will Turner is rescued from the sea, Governor Swann (at Elizabeth’s suggestion) instals him as a servant in the Swann household. Despite their differences in station, the children find that they have much in common, and become fast friends. For two years the bond between Will and Elizabeth grows stronger, until an act of innocent impulse threatens to end that friendship and separate the pair forever. Based on my previously-posted drabbles "Skirmish", "Resurrected", and "The Gift". The J/E Epilogue is set six years after the conclusion of AWE.
A/N: Dedicated with my most profuse thanks and boundless admiration to my beta extraordinaire geekmama (whose invaluable input greatly improved this tale), and to pearlseed , whose comments to me regarding "Skirmish" inspired the Epilogue.
Prologue
The last thing he recalled was fire ... fire, paralysing fear, and a great percussive sound like a clap of thunder, only a hundred times louder, a hundred times more fierce ... fiery dragon's breath searing him through his clothing, intense heat licking at his back ...
And falling ...
Falling through chokingly thick air that reeked of gunpowder and woodsmoke, culminating in a breath-taking plunge into freezing wet darkness ... numbing cold, threading its way through his limbs and his veins and the marrow of his bones like icy tendrils of death, plucking at his labouring heart and burning lungs with a raptor's claws, siphoning the warmth from his flesh, stealing bit by bit the very life from his body ...
Then, rising buoyantly, bursting free of the sea's womb to blessed, breathable air and pallid daylight ... the impact of something hard against his shoulder ... his insensate fingers scrabbling at splintered wood as he painfully hauled himself with the last of his strength onto something that bobbed and rode the surface of the water like a cork ... the solid feel of planks against his back as he weakly rolled over, turning his face to a grey-misted sky which filled his vision like a blank canvas painted in the devil's own palette by a madman's hand: swaths of crimson flame edged in orange-gold, swirling smudges of charcoal, billowing soot-black ...
And, finally, darkness, swallowing him up ...
* * * * *
The next thing of which he was conscious was a feathery touch upon his brow.
He gasped with sudden awareness as his eyes snapped open, panic lending the boy a man's strength as his right arm lashed out, his sea-cold fingers wrapping around soft, warm flesh, delicate bones shifting beneath his vice-like grip, eliciting a gasp which echoed his own.
His eyes slowly focused on a face hovering above him, nearly lost in the pearly grey light of the sky beyond it. A pale oval framed by a nimbus of tawny blonde hair, wide eyes like dark amber gemstones set in ivory.
Was he dead? Was this a heavenly guide, come to lead him to paradise ... some seraph sent to take him to his mother?
The vision spoke:
"It's okay ..." Welcome warmth enclosed his hand as the shining apparition took it between hers. "My name's Elizabeth Swann ..."
The voice was gentle, calming, reassuring ...
Beautiful ...
As he stared, the face came into sharper focus ... a pretty face, an angel's face, looking upon him with concern.
Elizabeth Swann ... Elizabeth Swann ... his mind chanted her name like a psalm as he struggled for breath to speak.
"W-Will ..." he finally was able to get out past trembling, blue-tinged lips. "Will Turner ..."
The lovely creature smiled at him, and he knew then for certain he was in Heaven. "I'm watching over you, Will."
I'm watching over you ...
Yes ...
He fell back, and surrendered himself again to the welcoming arms of blessed oblivion, secure in the knowledge that his own, personal guardian angel ...
Elizabeth Swann ...
... would take him under her wing, keep him safe ...
* * * * *
Awareness returned to the feel of gentle fingers threading through his hair ... the smell of hot candlewax, not charred wood, tickling his nostrils ... a soft mattress at his back rather than wet, bobbing boards, and the warmth of a thin woollen blanket spread over him instead of a grey, smoky sky arcing above him.
Flooded with relief, he smiled, still half-asleep. It had all been a dream - a terrible, terrifying dream - and he was safe in his bed, back in England.
Back home…
He drew a breath, and again marked the scent of a candle. He sighed, and his eyes slitted open, just a crack.
Flickering phantoms of shadow and light were cast against the dark walls of the tiny room. A bright flame floated above him and, beyond it, dark, somewhat familiar eyes glittered in a pale, feminine face. Details were temporarily obscured by the hole burnt into his vision by the searing tongue of fire, but her presence calmed him, as only one other person had been able to in his young life.
His sleepy smile widened further. "Mum?" he murmured. The hand stilled in his hair, and he reached up, snared it, drew it to his lips for a kiss, then pressed it to his cheek. "Oh, Mum ... you won't believe the nightmares I've had!"
The hand trembled upon his cheek ... a hand, he gradually realised, too small, too soft to be his mother's. Mama's hand was larger, her palm and the tips of her long fingers callused with the manual labours of a woman who had worked for over a decade to support a growing child and maintain a modest home, with only sporadic support from her absent husband. He became aware of other incongruities as well, that bespoke not an abode securely bound to terra firma, but a vessel borne upon the sea: the telltale creak of a ship's timbers, the sway and roll of a hull navigating choppy waters.
And he began to remember ...
Working passage as a cabin boy aboard the merchant ship Sally Mae ...
Watching a black galleon with black sails appear out of the fog ...
The roar of cannonfire ...
Cowering in a dark niche, hiding as a horde of raggedy pirates swarmed the deck, slaughtering the crew and passengers, emptying the Sally Mae's hold of its cargo, transferring it with methodical efficiency to the black-sailed ship under the watchful eye and booming voice of her captain, glimpsed in silhouette only against the greying sky: a tall, imposing man in a wide-brimmed, plumed hat...
Then, more cannonfire, and a huge explosion as the Sally Mae disintegrated into a massive ball of fire, blazing splinters, and fluttering kites of singed canvas...
He pushed those nightmare images away, and recalled, as though a distant memory, what had followed ...
His rescue from the sea ... Lord, had it only been today?
Then, being peppered by a barrage of questions that seemed to never end, posed persistently to him by a succession of men in red coats, blue coats ...
And, again, that sweet face he had seen peering down at him.
Had she only been a dream?
He closed his eyes and let his vision clear, the afterimage of the flame fading against his shut eyelids, before he opened them again ...
Looked up ...
Caught his breath ...
She was there.
Elizabeth Swann ...
His angel, his saviour ... delicate features gilded by the candle's soft glow, shining dark eyes alive with slivers of reflected flame, her hair a golden-bright halo around that lovely face.
Though he had released her hand, her palm remained warm against his cheek.
And when she spoke, her voice was as beautiful, as gentle as he remembered it.
"Will ... Will Turner ... are you all right?" Her hand moved at last, but only to tentatively stroke his cheek. "Is there anything you need? Anything I can get for you? Food? Water?"
He closed his eyes. Shook his head. No. He didn't think anything would ever be all right again. And what he needed was not sustenance, but forgetfulness ... peace ...
Home ...
She removed her hand from his face, and he felt suddenly bereft.
Her voice came, soft and sweet, in the dark. "Would ... would you like me to go? Would you prefer to be alone?"
Alone ...
He recalled what he had overheard earlier, when he was being questioned ...
"... the last one alive ... the lone survivor ..."
"... bloody pirates ...!"
"... might he be one ...?"
His heart lurched in panic, and his eyes snapped open. "No!" he gasped, his voice a hoarse plea. "No! Please ... stay!"
She nodded her head, turned to set down her candle, confined in its glass-and-brass cage, on a tiny table that appeared to be one of the few other pieces of furniture in the minuscule cabin.
By the wan illumination of the single candle flame he was able to see that the room contained two narrow cots, barely long enough to accommodate a boy Will's size, let alone the grown men who would normally be expected to occupy this cabin. The tiny table was wedged between the cots, and two modest-sized sea-chests (no doubt belonging to the cabin's original occupants) took up nearly the entirety of the remaining floor-space.
Elizabeth perched on the edge of the other bed, staring at his face with large, sympathetic eyes. "You ... you called for your mother. Would you like me to write a letter to her for you? To let her know you're all right? I'm sure my father can arrange for one to be sent-"
"No," he interrupted, with a grimace of soul-deep pain. "She's ..." His throat tightened as still-fresh grief washed over him, and it was an effort not to weep, "... she's dead."
"Oh!" Elizabeth breathed, eyes widening, her mouth a round "o" of sympathy. "Was she ..." She bit her lip, hesitated, a look of sorrow on her face. "Was she on the ship that was ... attacked?"
Will swallowed, and shook his head. "No ... she died a few months ago ... back in England."
As he watched, Elizabeth's eyes seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. "Mine, too," she all but whispered. "When I was five."
"Oh!" he echoed her earlier exclamation, then, seeing her sadness, and emboldened by a sudden need to comfort her, he reached out to lay his hand upon hers, where it rested on her knee. "I ... I'm so sorry."
She looked down, sighing deeply, and he felt a wet splash upon the back of his hand. When she looked up again he could see the liquid shine of her eyes, the tiny droplets that dewed her eyelashes. "It's all right ... I still have my father." She sniffed and, composing herself, looked directly into his eyes. "And you?"
He shrugged, and tried not to let her tears call forth his own. "I haven't heard from my father in nearly two years. Not since his last letter to me, and the gift he enclosed with it..." His hand strayed to his throat, unconsciously feeling for a chain that was no longer there, searching the inside of his shirt in vain for the medallion.
"It's gone!" His face fell. "I must have lost it when I fell into the water ..." Likely dislodged during his plunge into the sea, he supposed that the medallion now rested somewhere at the bottom of the ocean.
"That is why I left on the Sally Mae, after Mum died. I want to find my father. I learned that the ship that carried his last letter to me came from the Caribbean, so I thought it best I begin my search there." He looked down. "I'm afraid, though..." his voice quavered a bit, "that he may be dead as well."
She was gazing at him with a strange, unreadable expression. "Was your father a ... a pirate?" Elizabeth asked him, tentatively.
His eyes fixed on hers, suddenly smouldering with outraged anger. "Of course not! He was a merchant sailor ... a good man. Not a murdering, thieving pirate!"
She looked somewhat disappointed, then immediately apologetic. "I'm sorry ... I didn't mean to imply that he was not a good man. There are some pirates, after all, that are still good men ..."
"He was not a pirate!" he almost shouted. "He was ... is ... an honest, hard-working sailor!"
She seemed distressed at having upset him, patted his hand reassuringly. "Of course. I'm sorry. Please be still." She glanced apprehensively at the cabin's door. "Or the guard will come in, and I'll have to go ..."
No. He didn't want her to go!
He snatched his hand out from under hers, mildly embarrassed. "Beg pardon, Miss Swann-"
"Elizabeth ..." she interjected.
"Elizabeth ..." he tested the sound of her name on his tongue, upon his lips, "... may I ask... why are you here?"
She smiled again, and it was like the sun rising, flooding the tiny cabin with warmth and light. "My father placed you in my care. And no man aboard would dare countermand the order of a crown-appointed Governor, so when I told the guard I had come to tend to you, at my father's bidding, he had little choice but to let me in."
He frowned as the implications of her words sunk in. "Am I under arrest, then?"
"Oh, no!" she was quick to respond. "Well ... there is a guard stationed at your door, but I am assured by Lieutenant Norrington that it is only for your own safety and protection. After all, you have been quite ill all day."
He closed his eyes, sighed, and nodded. "Right."
"Are you certain you wouldn't like some food, or water …?"
"I doubt I could keep anything down, at present," he said, weakly. Behind his closed eyelids, he saw again the Captain of the Sally Mae, falling bonelessly to the deck, his throat slit, bright blood gushing across the wet boards ...
He felt again her hand upon his, her touch at his brow. "Would you like to ... to talk? About what happened?"
His eyes snapped open, and he shook his head emphatically: No! What he could tell her was not fit for the ears of a gently-bred young lady such as she!
"Would you like me to read to you? I could fetch a book from my cabin ..."
"No, thank you," he said.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked, regarding him with a pleading expression, a hint of frustration colouring her tone.
"Will you ...?" He hesitated, feeling his face heat with embarrassment.
"Will I ...?" she prompted, tilting her head slightly in query, and he found even that little motion quite a lovely thing, graceful and elegant like the bird whose name she bore.
"Will you ... will you stay with me, until I fall asleep?" he barely whispered, and was shamed to hear the tremor of fear in his voice. She must think him a base coward, or a babe in need of coddling.
But she only smiled gently, her eyes reflecting not a trace of contempt: only empathy and tender concern.
"Of course! If you'd like, I ... " She paused, and he thought he saw her blush slightly, but it might have been only a trick of the lighting. "I can sing to you."
He smiled back, gratefully. "Yes. That would be quite nice, I think."
And as he lay back upon his pillow, comforted by the candlelight and her reassuring presence, she softly started to sing. His heart panged with poignant memory as he recognised the song as one his own mother used to croon to him, years ago.
Lulled by her sweet voice, and the soothing rocking of the ship, he allowed his eyes to slip shut, and fell into the first truly peaceful sleep he had enjoyed since leaving England ...