FIC: Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I'm Yours 1/5
Title: Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I’m Yours
Part: 1/5 - My Letter to You
Author: miss_drea_fic
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Pairing: Jack/Will, Jack/Elizabeth, Will/Elizabeth
Rating: R
Summary: In the late 1800s, there was a town built upon the ocean, it was called Libertalia and William Turner thanked its creation with every breath he took as he walked on its decks.
Disclaimer: The Mouse owns it all.
-
August 12th, 1872, Port of Libertalia
My Dearest Friend,
It’s been several months since our last correspondence, and I apologise for my negligence but not for my lack of things to tell you. When last you wrote me, you had gotten into a very interesting fight, hadn’t you? Have you healed sufficiently enough to travel? I ask this only because I have something of great important to show you and something of even greater importance to tell you. This is why I’m writing this letter; to tell you.
A week ago, I sat in the bar and as I drank, a man sat next to me. He didn’t say a word, but he sat next to me, bought me ale when I finished my tankard, and glowered at those who wanted more than to stare at my pretty face. When the night was over he walked me back to my rooms, and made sure I was locked safely within. He did all this without saying a word.
The next night, he again sat beside me, a little less formally dressed. This is important; his shirt showed off an impressive scar on his chest. He caught me staring at it more than once, but he merely smiled and moved his shirt over to let me touch it. When I looked up at him in askance, he shook his head, and drank his rum. And again he walked me to my rooms.
The night after he sat down next to me, and I had already order his rum. He drank it in one quick go, and turned to me. He spoke for the first time that night. He said to me, “you wonder about my scar.” He did not ask, he stated, like he already knew what I was going to say. I nodded. He laughed, but it wasn’t at me, no, it was at himself. “My heart was cut out.”
I don’t think he was joking.
After that and every night hence, he sat next to me and offered up little tidbits of information. He was a captain and his ship was in a painful state of disrepair, which is why he had docked on the water side of Libertalia. He spoke fondly of his ship and he reminded me a bit of you, really, the way he went on about her. We spoke several times, but tonight, he turned to me and asked me a most peculiar question.
“What do you know of The Flying Dutchman and her captain?”
I admitted that I knew only the legend and the stories. Stories, I might add, that you yourself told me.
He smiled at me. I note this only because he had laughed but never smiled and that made all the difference in the lines of his face. His next sentence brought me up short. “Would you like to know more?” he said to me, his face open and honest.
At first, I thought he meant something entirely different. But when I read his eyes, I realized something I don’t think many have. This man didn’t need a pretty face, but a friend. I agreed. He took my hand and led me out of the bar onto the Eastern port of Libertalia. It was then that I saw the dark form of a ship on the horizon. A dark form of a ship, I might add, that was very, very familiar.
I took the gambit. I turned to my mysterious stranger and asked him, “when’s your next day ashore?”
He smiled at me again. “Tomorrow,” he said gently, leading me off the docks into the surf. He turned me to face the moon, and suddenly swept me into his arms. He lifted me effortlessly and carried me into the water. The next I knew we were standing on a deck, Libertalia merely a dark shape with dotted yellow lights.
I’m loathe to admit it, but I had a bit of a moment. I was struck with a dizzy spell, unused to traveling as such. My mysterious stranger lifted me into his arms again, and carried me through the slightly damp halls of his masterful ship. He settled me rather comfortably on the surprisingly dry bed, and poured me a cup of ale.
He sat down in front of me, on the foot of his bed, far enough to be decent but close enough to be intimate. He looked nervous, and I handed him my ale back. He then started to speak:
“My name is William Turner.”
I think you knew that though.
“I am the captain of The Flying Dutchman. I have been for almost two centuries.” He paused then, as though waiting for me to laugh. “You don’t find that strange?”
I shook my head. How could I not, knowing you?
“Twenty years after I became captain, my wife, Elizabeth, died.”
Did you know that?
“Two years after that, our son, died as well. Of consumption.”
I apologized, of course, how could I not? It’s a terrible burden for a parent to bare when they must bury a child.
“I never loved again,” he said. I opened my mouth to say something but he cut me off. “No,” he said slowly, “that’s not true. I loved but I never spoke of it.”
I asked him if that was a wise decision.
“No,” he said again, “I should have been braver.”
I told him that wise men weren’t always the brave ones.
He laughed then, and shook his head at me. “No, we brave men aren’t known for being wise. I’m constantly making rash decisions.”
So I told him that rash didn’t always mean stupid.
He laughed again and it was brighter, his eyes alight, his body relaxed against the foot of his bed and my feet. He looked at me in wonder and said, “you really believe me, don’t you.”
I grinned, nodded and introduced myself. He went white; I believe you did the same when you learnt my name as well.
He asked me if I knew my grandmother. It took me a minute to work out what he meant, but I shook my head. I lied a bit, because she wasn’t my grandmother, but I certainly did know her. Still do, sometimes.
He looked down at my mug of ale that he still held, took another sip and handed it back to me. I asked him then if his love ever sailed the sea.
He nodded. “Yes. But I guess he never died there.”
That certainly caught my attention. “He?” I asked him.
He blushed profusely and I found myself wondering if he blushed all the way down as well. “W-we were l-lovers,” he mumbled, stuttering over his words. “But everything went wrong and I made him believe that I didn’t care about him. So he left. And then... I died.”
I reached forward and clasped his hand. I asked him this lovers name.
He looked up. “His name?” he said, “he was Captain Jack Sparrow.”
Now do you see why I am writing this missive to you? I told William that I had heard of you. It wasn’t exactly a lie.
“You have? That would make him happy,” Will said. “He was always so proud of his name.”
You still are.
William and I continued to talk about the past two centuries, until the wee hours of the morning. When the clock in the cabin rang four bells, he swept me back into his arms and brought me to port. The sun was rising when we stood in the surf. A flash of green enveloped him and he stood before me, then walked up the sand onto the dune grass. He walked me the long way home.
He told me he was going to explore Libertalia, and he would be back for me at noon. He said I should sleep, but I shan’t sleep yet. I must finish this letter and have it out before then. I tried to remember everything for you. I didn’t give anything away.
Well...other than my name.
We assumed we were a dying breed, you and I. You, a pirate, and I...well, a dying breed. But, William Turner is right here, waiting for you. I swear to my mother, Jack Sparrow if you break his heart I’ll hunt you down myself.
He loves you.
And you can’t tell me you don’t love him back.
Forever yours,
Anaya Dalma
*End Part One
Part: 1/5 - My Letter to You
Author: miss_drea_fic
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Pairing: Jack/Will, Jack/Elizabeth, Will/Elizabeth
Rating: R
Summary: In the late 1800s, there was a town built upon the ocean, it was called Libertalia and William Turner thanked its creation with every breath he took as he walked on its decks.
Disclaimer: The Mouse owns it all.
-
August 12th, 1872, Port of Libertalia
My Dearest Friend,
It’s been several months since our last correspondence, and I apologise for my negligence but not for my lack of things to tell you. When last you wrote me, you had gotten into a very interesting fight, hadn’t you? Have you healed sufficiently enough to travel? I ask this only because I have something of great important to show you and something of even greater importance to tell you. This is why I’m writing this letter; to tell you.
A week ago, I sat in the bar and as I drank, a man sat next to me. He didn’t say a word, but he sat next to me, bought me ale when I finished my tankard, and glowered at those who wanted more than to stare at my pretty face. When the night was over he walked me back to my rooms, and made sure I was locked safely within. He did all this without saying a word.
The next night, he again sat beside me, a little less formally dressed. This is important; his shirt showed off an impressive scar on his chest. He caught me staring at it more than once, but he merely smiled and moved his shirt over to let me touch it. When I looked up at him in askance, he shook his head, and drank his rum. And again he walked me to my rooms.
The night after he sat down next to me, and I had already order his rum. He drank it in one quick go, and turned to me. He spoke for the first time that night. He said to me, “you wonder about my scar.” He did not ask, he stated, like he already knew what I was going to say. I nodded. He laughed, but it wasn’t at me, no, it was at himself. “My heart was cut out.”
I don’t think he was joking.
After that and every night hence, he sat next to me and offered up little tidbits of information. He was a captain and his ship was in a painful state of disrepair, which is why he had docked on the water side of Libertalia. He spoke fondly of his ship and he reminded me a bit of you, really, the way he went on about her. We spoke several times, but tonight, he turned to me and asked me a most peculiar question.
“What do you know of The Flying Dutchman and her captain?”
I admitted that I knew only the legend and the stories. Stories, I might add, that you yourself told me.
He smiled at me. I note this only because he had laughed but never smiled and that made all the difference in the lines of his face. His next sentence brought me up short. “Would you like to know more?” he said to me, his face open and honest.
At first, I thought he meant something entirely different. But when I read his eyes, I realized something I don’t think many have. This man didn’t need a pretty face, but a friend. I agreed. He took my hand and led me out of the bar onto the Eastern port of Libertalia. It was then that I saw the dark form of a ship on the horizon. A dark form of a ship, I might add, that was very, very familiar.
I took the gambit. I turned to my mysterious stranger and asked him, “when’s your next day ashore?”
He smiled at me again. “Tomorrow,” he said gently, leading me off the docks into the surf. He turned me to face the moon, and suddenly swept me into his arms. He lifted me effortlessly and carried me into the water. The next I knew we were standing on a deck, Libertalia merely a dark shape with dotted yellow lights.
I’m loathe to admit it, but I had a bit of a moment. I was struck with a dizzy spell, unused to traveling as such. My mysterious stranger lifted me into his arms again, and carried me through the slightly damp halls of his masterful ship. He settled me rather comfortably on the surprisingly dry bed, and poured me a cup of ale.
He sat down in front of me, on the foot of his bed, far enough to be decent but close enough to be intimate. He looked nervous, and I handed him my ale back. He then started to speak:
“My name is William Turner.”
I think you knew that though.
“I am the captain of The Flying Dutchman. I have been for almost two centuries.” He paused then, as though waiting for me to laugh. “You don’t find that strange?”
I shook my head. How could I not, knowing you?
“Twenty years after I became captain, my wife, Elizabeth, died.”
Did you know that?
“Two years after that, our son, died as well. Of consumption.”
I apologized, of course, how could I not? It’s a terrible burden for a parent to bare when they must bury a child.
“I never loved again,” he said. I opened my mouth to say something but he cut me off. “No,” he said slowly, “that’s not true. I loved but I never spoke of it.”
I asked him if that was a wise decision.
“No,” he said again, “I should have been braver.”
I told him that wise men weren’t always the brave ones.
He laughed then, and shook his head at me. “No, we brave men aren’t known for being wise. I’m constantly making rash decisions.”
So I told him that rash didn’t always mean stupid.
He laughed again and it was brighter, his eyes alight, his body relaxed against the foot of his bed and my feet. He looked at me in wonder and said, “you really believe me, don’t you.”
I grinned, nodded and introduced myself. He went white; I believe you did the same when you learnt my name as well.
He asked me if I knew my grandmother. It took me a minute to work out what he meant, but I shook my head. I lied a bit, because she wasn’t my grandmother, but I certainly did know her. Still do, sometimes.
He looked down at my mug of ale that he still held, took another sip and handed it back to me. I asked him then if his love ever sailed the sea.
He nodded. “Yes. But I guess he never died there.”
That certainly caught my attention. “He?” I asked him.
He blushed profusely and I found myself wondering if he blushed all the way down as well. “W-we were l-lovers,” he mumbled, stuttering over his words. “But everything went wrong and I made him believe that I didn’t care about him. So he left. And then... I died.”
I reached forward and clasped his hand. I asked him this lovers name.
He looked up. “His name?” he said, “he was Captain Jack Sparrow.”
Now do you see why I am writing this missive to you? I told William that I had heard of you. It wasn’t exactly a lie.
“You have? That would make him happy,” Will said. “He was always so proud of his name.”
You still are.
William and I continued to talk about the past two centuries, until the wee hours of the morning. When the clock in the cabin rang four bells, he swept me back into his arms and brought me to port. The sun was rising when we stood in the surf. A flash of green enveloped him and he stood before me, then walked up the sand onto the dune grass. He walked me the long way home.
He told me he was going to explore Libertalia, and he would be back for me at noon. He said I should sleep, but I shan’t sleep yet. I must finish this letter and have it out before then. I tried to remember everything for you. I didn’t give anything away.
Well...other than my name.
We assumed we were a dying breed, you and I. You, a pirate, and I...well, a dying breed. But, William Turner is right here, waiting for you. I swear to my mother, Jack Sparrow if you break his heart I’ll hunt you down myself.
He loves you.
And you can’t tell me you don’t love him back.
Forever yours,
Anaya Dalma
*End Part One