(no subject)
TITLE: Never Shall We Die (aka, the last chapter of 11 Years Later)
PAIRING: Sparrabeth, naturally.
RATING: R (for sexy stuff, and heavy life&death stuff)
A/N: This can be two things. A: it can be the last chapter of my "11 Years Later" series (which can be seen here if you haven't read it/have the inclination), or b: it can stand alone. I've written three parts, "past" "present" and "future". Starting with "present", moving to "past" (which is only a group of snapshots leading up to the events of "present", and then finally to future, which is sort of narrated by the collective unconscious of human history, and the spirit/legacy of piracy. It sounds weird, I know.
present
"You've no Father left to hide behind now, pirate,"
His breath reeks of hellfire, and brimstone, of sulfur, most likely because that was, from the moment she'd first set eyes on the man, the predominant thing spewing forth from the tiny excuse for pursed lips somewhere near the middle of a round, perpetually red face.
"Pirate," a word that'd once carried romance, a word she'd taken as strange compliment, or something like a badge of honor. Brigands are not in the habit of handing out rank, or medals or merit; that word being proof that the proletariat have naught to offer but their solidarity, the affirmation of community, and further, that one should have need of nothing else.
There had, of course, been another instance, with breath like the devil's drink, and a fear he desperately tried to hide. He'd leaned forward, the first taste of her still fresh in his mouth, a sheen of betrayal, and saliva on his bottom lip, "pirate."
Now, it was her death sentence as well. Funny how it still felt something like vindication.
The most high, honorable, and rotund Reverend Mather continued, leaning in, nearly nose to nose, causing hers to wrinkle in obvious disgust, though whether it was because of the smell, or the mere presence of him, no one could tell,
"not his status, or his money, not even his concerned face looking up at you from the crowd."
He turned, facing said crowd, a divided mass of very different souls: Puritans, gathered like emaciated vultures, standing side by awkward side with dusty working men, who's wives carried children on each load bearing hip, the lot of them covered with the grime of capital, and manual labor. They looked, all of them, cautiously sideways, toward the wigs, and jewels that stood in their own group with more contempt than even the bastard before her could muster for his prey. For a man of no more than five and a half feet, he could certainly project when the occasion called for it, his booming voice sounded like nothing less than the voice of God, or so it must have, as it caused some of the folk to start, and quickly snap 'round to attention.
Elizabeth Swann-Turner imagined that maybe, somewhere there, hidden discretely behind a pillar, tucked behind an alcove, or simply obstructed by a very large hat in poor taste, there was a wealthy man and his daughter; a girl full of incessant questions, who spent too many hours reading tales of Blackbeard, Roberts, Bonny, Read, and Rackham, a girl who made up her own stories during lessons, and always came home with dirt on new dresses, and cut knees. If there were such a girl, her Father would want her to listen to what the minister was about to say, he would insist upon it, for her own betterment.
Finally, once he felt assured he had the full attention of his flock, he raised his hands into the air, waving wildly, and pointing to a different face upon each word, "You seamen, you, yes you! The entire filthy lot of you who've been taken over by the demon 'Hubris', believe that God's eyes do not follow you beyond the reaches of the map," he pauses here, and though she is not sure why, she questions where such places exist, and why she'd not been told of them sooner, "you will watch this, and you will know that this," a forefinger is thrust back, in the direction of the two damned, "this is what society does to pirates."
She wonders if the well intentioned, possibly there Father realizes that these are not the words his child will take home with her; wonders if that girl will now read the stories of Swann, and Sparrow.
Cotton, his given name was, Cotton Mather, of Massachusetts. He had been present at the witch trials in Salem, and watched as a woman named Bridget Bishop was hanged for nearly nothing more than wearing a red bodice. He'd written pamphlets about the importance of introducing the slave trade to all Christendom, and when piracy had come to the forefront of the world's attention, he'd made it his personal business to attend the most high-profile executions. He had always, as he did now, turning again, this time toward her partner in damnation, gotten some sick form of pleasure from taking the final confessions of the most acclaimed of the hostis humani generis.
"But, our God is not an unforgiving God, no, my children," he lowers his voice here, only slightly, and shakes his head as though the entire thing pains him, "he is ready and waiting for each of you! He will take you back into the fold with open arms, if you but repent." He places his hand upon the shoulder of the figure to whom he speaks, leans in, and whispers, "repent."
The figure, however, would have none of it.
"What was that, mate? M'sorry, it's just that m'a bit hard of hearing it this ear," he leaned in, mimicking the shorter man's motion moments earlier, "s'year's of cannon blast, I suppose, you want me to do what exactly?"
"Repent, son, repent of your wickedness so that the arms of the Lord will be open unto you," in full tones he pretends to be delivering a sermon, to be preaching the forgiveness of Heaven, offered, tax-free, to any and all who accept. But through gritted teeth, he whispers, "if I were you, I think I would prefer to do that before the floor opens."
Jack Sparrow laughs, riotously, in such a fashion that, if his hands were not tied, and the situation completely different, he'd of doubled over. It is full, and alive, and part of her wants the entire thing to come to a close right then and there, just so that sound can be the last thing she hears.
"In all truth, and I feel like I can be honest with you here, Cotton, doyoumindifIcallyouCotton?, because you're a, a, oh hell, well you have a sympathetic face, is all,"
He most certainly does not, and she cannot help but let a tiny giggle escape, and escaping very nearly with it, an attempt to shush Jack. Though, she supposed in the moment, no amount of back talk could change the outcome at this point. Sparrow continues, trying very hard to perform his usual mannerisms, but finding the task rather difficult, being bound and all, "so, actually, sir, I think if you were me, I'd be an impotent shit of a man intent on ordering others about in some sort of twisted attempt to compensate for something, or, uh, other," he offers her a sideways glance, and shrugs lightly, "don't know, luv, what d'you think? You've had experience with eunuchs."
The beating of her heart defies the execution drum, always hitting the off note, as though deliberate, and she, struggling against her own ties, wipes her palms against the fabric of her skirts. She does not flinch, or stir, at the sound of the back of puritanical hand making connection with piratical face. She instead disassociates herself, most effectively, managing to instead spend horrible moments reflecting on some precious, slurred memory, and in the space between, she hovers amid a desperate attempt at intervention, or fainting.
"Please," she could whimper, in some attempt to play off the common male mistake of underestimating anything of the female persuasion, she could, if she could spare the dignity, squeeze out some tears of contrition on behalf of of their unfortunate, dirty souls. One quickly becomes accustomed to the sound of begging upon going a'pyrating, the pathetic attempt of sailors and merchants to save their property, or lives. Usually, it is the former, but such men, men of means, and station, so frequently confuse it with the later. Now it is humbling, and nearly terrifying to become the beggar; now, it stands as shackled proof of a glacial reality completely unconcerned with the perception of a optimistic few, it stands, in the pathetic shape of an unkempt lover, as agonizing testimony of how very small we all are, in the face of permanence.
The beating of her heart defies the execution itself, always hitting on the off note, as though deliberate. She does not flinch, or stir as the drum beats louder, only steps out of the situation, and manages instead to hide in some precious slur of a memory, and in the space between, there is nothing.
past
It was two weeks since the Armada had retreated, one day since Jack had returned, soaked, and swearing, three minutes since Will's absence had crashed over her features, as if only just remembered. Their initial interaction had been as per usual: pretense, innuendo, and the slight taste of things he refused to think, let alone say aloud. Perched like statues on a dune, two empty bottles thrown carelessly to the periphery, he did not remind her of the spread of a decade, only kept watch, with her, over her, in reserved understanding of her need to keep hoping.
That she had not eaten was obvious, though how long it had been he could not tell. Only that her skin was dull, and her hair, still stripped and crisped by salt-water. It was for this reason, and this reason alone, that he broke silence.
"All right, darling, wake's over, can't sit here for ten years; you need to eat something."
She did not stir, but sat in a self-possessed wind that swept the hair from her face; she had stopped crying, it seemed, only as a byproduct of exhaustion. Her fingers were knuckle deep in sand, digging in, and pulling out, occasionally making absent drawings to keep her mind busy. Though his words could, on the surface, be considered partially callous, she was glad for his veiled concern, and most of all, for his company.
"He's not coming back, is he?"
It sounded naive, she knew, and even as the words left her mouth she was repulsed by their child-like implications. He stirred, beside her, hesitating in the space between answering honestly, and putting his arm around her. In the end he decided on the former, for the sake of appearances, and tradition.
"In time," his tone was low, and soothing; something akin to a caress, or the embrace that he could not bring himself to offer, "he'll not be gone forever."
She nodded soundlessly, and connected with his gaze, never tiring of the way he left his mouth a fraction of the way open after speaking, or the crease that formed between his brows when knit, indicating concern. He gave a little smile, and jerked his arm, as though it had tried, of it's own accord, to comfort her again, and he would not have it.
"An' I don't think he'd fancy you sitting here all alone the entire time."
"I'm not alone," she returns his smile, still despite her attempts against it, she almost repeats the words, to remind herself, "you're with me, now."
"That I am, luv," they fall silent again, for a fraction, both seeming almost fearful of the statement's double-meaning; she shifts, picks at her hem; he digs the heel of his boot into sand, and chuckles, unexpectedly, "though, I expect he'd be less than pleased with that knowledge, as well."
She laughs, strained, and distant, trying to ignore the truth lying between the lines, trying only to hear the waves, and the distant hint of Will's voice in her ear saying, "keep a weather eye on the horizon,"; as hours creep on, it is distorted, unrecognizable, til she can scarcely recall his face. "No, no, you saved his life, I believe he'd be glad to know there was someone to look in on me. He'd be glad to know it was you."
He could think of a few other husbands throughout his life that had made similar mistakes, but kept the thought to himself; this was different, as well they both knew, though neither of them were likely to admit it. "Well then we mustn't have his trust misplaced then," he was standing to his feet, dusting sand from his breeches, and thrusting his right hand into her line of sight, "to the fortress, your highness?"
Her frown is returned, a great pout that was exaggerated for the purposes of mockery, "Come now, Lizzy, I won't have you wasting away," she takes his hand, and he pulls her up, "the dinghy'll be able to navigate the entrance well enough, s'called the 'Devil's Throat', you know. Sounds promising, I think."
*
("Take me with you,")
She breathes wasted breath, gasping in time with the heavy staccato of his thrusts, and in desperate sync with the caress of cellos, and the head rush of kisses without reason.
("For chrissake, Jack, say something before I lose my nerve.")
The dim haze of memory recalls a bound hand covering her mouth, lest the entire performance should be interrupted; opera houses are not accustomed to the culture of alleyways. The blame could be split in this endeavor, half caused by an offhand statement, the mention that she'd always loved music, and would kill, well, someone, to have a box to her own devices again... rather, to her impulsive inclinations.
He'd shrugged, a half-hearted rise and fall of his shoulders, and gave a impish wink between grins that told her she'd started something, though what she couldn't say. He'd shrugged, as though things like tickets, money, and stature were not things that brigands required to get their way; shrugged as though the rules had never applied to him, and he'd be damned to let them start now.
Three weeks at sea had dropped them somewhere in the vicinity of Venice, and she could not help but glow at the prospect. Half an hour on land found her corseted again, this time of her own accord (due in large part to the process by which she was certain it would be removed), wearing the finest clothes a lack of money could pilfer, and one hour after that,
she breathes wasted breath, gasping in time with the heavy staccato of his thrusts, and in desperate sync with the caress of cellos, singing a choking, wordless aria of flight.
("Thought you'd never ask, luv.")
*
Upon standing he came very quickly to the vocalized conclusion that perhaps his legs had had a bit too much to drink. Being the damned things wouldn't work properly and it, of course, had nothing to do with the amount of alcohol that his mouth had previously consumed. To assume the later, you see, would be sheer madness, as it was clearly the legs who had the problem.
She gazed upward from her cross-legged position, looked up, red-eyed, but smiling, and somehow managed to not vocalize her conclusion that the precarious locks framing his face made maintaining pure intention difficult, at absolute best.
They had taken to celebrating the night by digging unwitting graves in the sand, dug out with shovels made of rebellion, and a detrimental faith in the effectiveness of running away quick enough. They had taken, in recent weeks, to howling at the moon, spinning like mad unfortunates, shouting only ever "life!" at the top of lungs bubbling over with enthusiasm, and the dangerous naivete of the hopelessly hopeful. Society, however, is a deaf beast, stalking after strays, and dreamers with insatiable hunger.
"Well," she reasoned, surprised, and oddly proud of the slur falling from her lips, "if it is, in fact, your legs that are causing the problem I see only two options, dear Captain," he watched her face like a mirror, watched it morph into his own half preemptive apology of a nervous smile, and quickly fade to nonexpression, "one: we chop them off right here and now," she swats down his potential response, waving wildly, as though he shouldn't be concerned, "don't worry, I've got a machete right here, s'no problem at all."
He takes a step back, and then another, and two more, but before he can get any further the entire scene elicits her unrestrained laughter, "Or, or, or," her tone takes on a soothing air, though the suspicious face he makes, in combonation with the worried glance at his legs suggets that it wasn't near so soothing as she'd hoped, "or, you could just sit back down. Personally, I think that option seems the less extreme of the two, but it's up to you, of course."
"Can't."
"Can't what? Sit, or make up your mind? Cause I have really have to suggest that were I in your position, I should think the legs would be more impo--"
"No, no, no, damnable woman," he says this with a look of affection, and the glimmer of an almost smile, "can't sit back down, then, you see, we would suffer the most horrible consequence of missing the party."
She quirks one brow, abruptly followed by the other, "The what now?"
"Party, luv, I'm quite sure that all those books you filled your pretty little head with informed you that pirates enjoy nothing more than a riotous combination of music, dance, and drink. You've witnessed our politics, darling, dear, but you've never seen our parties."
"Well," she says, very nearly starting to stand, and thinking the better of it, "I see only two problems with the scenario,"
"Two again? Have you been studying the ancient art of numerology behind my back? Is there---"
"Shut it, Sparrow."
"Ma'am." There is a tiny flourish, just enough to make it abundantly clear that the title was sheer mockery, and he fell silent.
"First, there is the issue that I have had entirely too much rum, and I, unlike you, have decided not to try and pass the blame off on a set of poor, unassuming legs," his protest, amusing though it may have been, was silenced quickly, with a wave of her hand, the continued explanation, "and second, well, second is that if I recall all of those books correctly, you've left out an essential part of the, ah, repertoire."
"Which is?"
"The women, naturally. The beautiful, rouge covered, ladies of high Tortugan society. I would simply hate to think that I was the thing standing between you and syphilis. I honestly do not know if I'd be able to continue sleeping at night with such a thing on my conscience."
His weight is heavy next to her, and he sits, again, in their grave of sand, and insurrection. The corrupt pitch of his eyes flicker for a moment, and a wicked smirk passes across his features, he moves toward her, a close lack of caution, the sticky hot of fermented sugarcane clinging to the column flesh over her now visible pulse.
"Then, my little pirate, they'll have to wait their turn, won't they?"
*
("Do you trust me?")
"Listen, darling, an' do not, whatever else may happen, ever forget this,"
The Armada is not defeated, and it's retreats are far from permanent. Rather, it pulls back only far enough to earn the complacency of it's intended victim, leaves it's target to a merry round of drinks, completely unaware of the world pressing down, and in, like a crushing cloud. Before the week is out she knows they'll be speaking through dead, and martyred mouths; dancing against the twitching liberty found at rope's end. His tone is low, and rushed, and something about it is all so horribly familiar that she cannot help but tense at the fear dancing behind eyes made of fire, and onyx defiance.
"You, when they come, and they will come; you'll tell them you were forced, tell them you've been kidnapped, and raped, and suffered horrible tortures at my hands, you'll tell them anything you have to," There is a gravity in his voice she has never heard, and does not care to hear again. A sort of defeated acknowledgment that the jig is, most decidedly, up. He is stripped bare of legend, and myth; stripped of circular sarcastic reasoning, and the levity of humor. There is a gravity in his voice that calls to mind the white lines spidering up his arms, and the echo in screaming in her ears, "no truth at all."
For a fraction of a moment she opens and closes her mouth, straddling the chasm between choosing her words carefully, or turning into the very epitome of hysterical female. In the end, though, there is a middle ground; all options weighed, there is a line in the sand, and this is where she has chosen to carve it.
"I will do no such thing! I came of my own accord, Jack, you didn't force me at all, I--"
"---will do exactly as I said. I am the Captain of this ship, and you'll--"
"Jack Sparrow, do not dare presume to pull rank on me! In case you've forgotten, you voted me King, and in case you've decided not to care, I can always challenge your position aboard this ship. Shall I send for Mister Gibbs?" Rage flies across his face, flutters, and bats it's wings, leaving him red-faced, and attempting to speak through gritted teeth, and knit brow. She waves him down before he is offered the chance, a simple conclusion to her position, arms folded across her chest in a show of resolve, "That's not what I want to do, but if you leave me no choice ...." there is a brief pause, her eyes grow wide at the prospect of tears, and she stares, unblinking, in attempt to air dry the accumulating weakness. When she meets his gaze again, his face is wild, near the point of begging. She looks away, looks down, looks anywhere but there, "as I've said, I am aboard this ship because I chose to be, and I will be damned if I allow you to take the fall for my actions. Do not push me, Jack, do not."
Had the situation been less dire, he'd of applauded her audacity, her independence, her completely reckless disregard for the way things typically go, and even for the ease with which she'd taken to swearing. Had the situation been less dire, he'd not of pushed her then, quite literally, against the wall of his quarter's, blocking any and all exit she may have taken. Perhaps, on any other given day,
"We are not play acting, Elizabeth! This is not some game! This is not a fairy tale!" His breath is hot on her cheek, and she turns away from the decibels of his desperation, away from everyone unspoken piece of blame he was lying on himself for her situation, "I knew what I was getting into, I understood the consequences, understood that no one can outrun them forever--"
"--And, what? I didn't? Is that what you're implying? Poor little rich girl, what does she know about--"
"Yes! Goddamnit, Bess, that's exactly what I'm implying. You, with your head full of stories, and belly full of longing; you, with your safety net, and the well understood, albeit silent agreement, that you could abandon this entire series of events at any time. This is not your world, luv,"
He should expected the hard feel of the back of her hand meeting his cheek, should have expected the hot, angry salt spilling from her eyes like betrayed waterfalls, should have expected all of it, but the expectation did not keep him from reeling backward, and further back still, removing himself from the wildly wagging finger thrust in his face, and the shrill, entirely literal screaming now bubbling over, and out of her chest.
"If this is not my world, then what is? Should I go back to my tower? What do you suggest?" Each despondent question is punctuated by a hard palm meeting sternum, "What now does the all-knowing, all-lucky Captain Jack Sparrow have to say about the things he's told me before, all the bits about living moment to moment, the part where you said the grisly end was worth it? The man who told me he saw no reason for a woman to be treated as fragile, docile, and useless, this man now stands before me saying, what? That I should shed some tears, beg for my life, plead my belly, accuse you,---" her voice hitches here, something like the throat starting to close and thinking the better of it, "--accuse the man I lo--, I cannot, I cannot abandon you to this fate, I cannot abandon you to the consequence of my free action, and I refuse to turn and run."
He does not stop her from her show of aggression, but is jostled with each strike; he does not stop her, because part of him knows full well he deserves it, though only for some of the reasons she thinks. Quietly, and cautiously, he resigns. Quietly, and cautiously, and without the conviction, or courage to meet her eyes, he responds.
"I shouldn't have filled your head with stories, Lilibet, shouldn't have told you there was hope hidden places staying hidden. I believed because I had to, I believed because it was the only thing worth doing, I shouldn't have infected you with, with," he sighs, heavy, but not resigned, sighs again, flinches as though the next words from his mouth could very well earn the back of her other hand, and he'd deserve it just as much as the first time, the desperate decibels have lowered, barely above a harsh whisper this time around, but the sting of his words was enough, "-- those stories are what brought you here, the boredom of your, what'd you call it, tower.. you had everything the world could offer, and wanted none of it; had everything, and wanted none of it simply because you could have it. There are men aboard this very ship who, for lack of their position aboard, would be lying in a filth covered ditch, or working for a slave-driver of a merchant Captain; men who are crippled, and gnarled, and here because we had no where else to go, or hide. You, luv, you made your choice, and now, you can unmake it. I'm telling you, you're off the hook, you're--"
This time, he saw the flying hand coming, caught it mid-air, but this did not keep her from wrenching free, and then, after a heavy moment of pause, forcefully pushing past him, up the stairs, above deck, and this most unfortunate conversation.
("I trust you.")
*
He had long extolled the strange virtue of moonlight looming through clouds, pushing through prison bars, illuminating plans of seemingly inevitable escape. He'd said you have to know the cage before you can truly appreciate it's lacking; sometimes, he said, figuring your way out of jail was as good a lesson as one could hope for.
Jack Sparrow is a shadow of himself sitting in the corner of a cell, the entire place covered with the smell of urine, and death; the smell of stale hope, and bread. The shadow starts at the creak of the door opening, and another unlucky soul being thrust unceremoniously onto the stone floor. His eyes widen, narrow, and widen again, an attempt to save face until the solider is down the hall, and out of sight.
He pulls her from the floor with both hands, lifts her up by the shoulders and examines the cut on her left cheek, and swollen purple of her eye; shakes her hard, very nearly screaming,
"What did you tell them?"
"The truth." She coughs, and he loosens his hold, "I told them the truth, Jack."
His face falls, and he silently sits back down again, indicating that she may as well do the same.
Choice, not change, is the ultimate determiner of destiny; action, not fate, serves as catalyst. There is no security to be found under any stone on this divided earth, where each of the spoiled children of men has taken his share, and then some. There is only, eternally, ceaseless possibility, breaking brackish with an unapologetic ocean of blind turns, and staggered upon opportunity.
"I guess we'll go to hell together, then, luv."
She shrugs, a tiny shrug that tries to pretend it is not the end, and laughs a tiny hopeful laugh, "I was hoping for the second circle, myself."
"You may have it yet, darling. You may yet."
future
Men spoke in hushed below deck voices, in hurried, inspired tones; they spoke of Mission, and his Liberi, as though something animal had been awakened inside them. These men, with their hard, scarred hards, turned sandpaper through labor, and a self-selling installment plan, these men with their twisted, mangled bodies, were not near so broken in spirit, and talked, til they were blue in the face; each of them with a Libertalia in their hearts, a proud and mad utopia built of nothing left to lose.
They talked until it almost didn't matter if the man had ever existed, at all.
In landlocked churches, and townships, pamphleteers and Puritans warned against the piratical seduction, cautioning everyone that these beasts had been known to meddle with prudent women, and worser still, it was whispered that there were some women who welcomed the prospect. These monsters, dripping with blood, and rum, no more, and no less than the common enemy of all mankind, would tempt the ill-fated Eve, and call away rebellious children, bribing them with games, and treasure; they would most assuredly lead an uprising amongst the slaves.
It is said that this war was won by British cannon, and fleet; it is said that piracy is dead, and gone, that capital, and property have prevailed beyond all denial. But, there is a sort of cadence to the world, an endless cycle of oppression, and it's throwing off. Revolt is as base an instinct as breathing, it only requires of a different set of circumstances. We are a people of struggle, and defiance. We are a people who's stories have been lost to centuries, and the histories of biased men. We are a people made villains by self-proclaimed heroes; those who simply had the luxury of surviving long enough to stack the narration in their favor. Beneath parrots, and eye patches, there is truth. One need only peel away at the layers of popular culture to see the human spirit, entrails laid bare, but resolute, and for one bright shining moment in the annals of eternity, barely more than two thousand of us lead the way, carving a determined route toward an illusive horizon.
Men determined to speak above decks, in slower, but equally inspired tones. They did not only speak of Mission, and his Liberi; they set out on voyages off the edge of the world, and gave their short, but merry lives to stand as immortal, living proof that the despotic demands of the day-to-day are not ultimate. These men, with their hard, scarred hands, and twisted bodies gave weapons to slaves, and gin to housewives. They lived audaciously, and fearlessly, not so that others could do so vicariously, but so they could see that they too could follow.
And as we speak of them now, it almost ceases to matter whether they had ever existed, at all.
PAIRING: Sparrabeth, naturally.
RATING: R (for sexy stuff, and heavy life&death stuff)
A/N: This can be two things. A: it can be the last chapter of my "11 Years Later" series (which can be seen here if you haven't read it/have the inclination), or b: it can stand alone. I've written three parts, "past" "present" and "future". Starting with "present", moving to "past" (which is only a group of snapshots leading up to the events of "present", and then finally to future, which is sort of narrated by the collective unconscious of human history, and the spirit/legacy of piracy. It sounds weird, I know.
present
"You've no Father left to hide behind now, pirate,"
His breath reeks of hellfire, and brimstone, of sulfur, most likely because that was, from the moment she'd first set eyes on the man, the predominant thing spewing forth from the tiny excuse for pursed lips somewhere near the middle of a round, perpetually red face.
"Pirate," a word that'd once carried romance, a word she'd taken as strange compliment, or something like a badge of honor. Brigands are not in the habit of handing out rank, or medals or merit; that word being proof that the proletariat have naught to offer but their solidarity, the affirmation of community, and further, that one should have need of nothing else.
There had, of course, been another instance, with breath like the devil's drink, and a fear he desperately tried to hide. He'd leaned forward, the first taste of her still fresh in his mouth, a sheen of betrayal, and saliva on his bottom lip, "pirate."
Now, it was her death sentence as well. Funny how it still felt something like vindication.
The most high, honorable, and rotund Reverend Mather continued, leaning in, nearly nose to nose, causing hers to wrinkle in obvious disgust, though whether it was because of the smell, or the mere presence of him, no one could tell,
"not his status, or his money, not even his concerned face looking up at you from the crowd."
He turned, facing said crowd, a divided mass of very different souls: Puritans, gathered like emaciated vultures, standing side by awkward side with dusty working men, who's wives carried children on each load bearing hip, the lot of them covered with the grime of capital, and manual labor. They looked, all of them, cautiously sideways, toward the wigs, and jewels that stood in their own group with more contempt than even the bastard before her could muster for his prey. For a man of no more than five and a half feet, he could certainly project when the occasion called for it, his booming voice sounded like nothing less than the voice of God, or so it must have, as it caused some of the folk to start, and quickly snap 'round to attention.
Elizabeth Swann-Turner imagined that maybe, somewhere there, hidden discretely behind a pillar, tucked behind an alcove, or simply obstructed by a very large hat in poor taste, there was a wealthy man and his daughter; a girl full of incessant questions, who spent too many hours reading tales of Blackbeard, Roberts, Bonny, Read, and Rackham, a girl who made up her own stories during lessons, and always came home with dirt on new dresses, and cut knees. If there were such a girl, her Father would want her to listen to what the minister was about to say, he would insist upon it, for her own betterment.
Finally, once he felt assured he had the full attention of his flock, he raised his hands into the air, waving wildly, and pointing to a different face upon each word, "You seamen, you, yes you! The entire filthy lot of you who've been taken over by the demon 'Hubris', believe that God's eyes do not follow you beyond the reaches of the map," he pauses here, and though she is not sure why, she questions where such places exist, and why she'd not been told of them sooner, "you will watch this, and you will know that this," a forefinger is thrust back, in the direction of the two damned, "this is what society does to pirates."
She wonders if the well intentioned, possibly there Father realizes that these are not the words his child will take home with her; wonders if that girl will now read the stories of Swann, and Sparrow.
Cotton, his given name was, Cotton Mather, of Massachusetts. He had been present at the witch trials in Salem, and watched as a woman named Bridget Bishop was hanged for nearly nothing more than wearing a red bodice. He'd written pamphlets about the importance of introducing the slave trade to all Christendom, and when piracy had come to the forefront of the world's attention, he'd made it his personal business to attend the most high-profile executions. He had always, as he did now, turning again, this time toward her partner in damnation, gotten some sick form of pleasure from taking the final confessions of the most acclaimed of the hostis humani generis.
"But, our God is not an unforgiving God, no, my children," he lowers his voice here, only slightly, and shakes his head as though the entire thing pains him, "he is ready and waiting for each of you! He will take you back into the fold with open arms, if you but repent." He places his hand upon the shoulder of the figure to whom he speaks, leans in, and whispers, "repent."
The figure, however, would have none of it.
"What was that, mate? M'sorry, it's just that m'a bit hard of hearing it this ear," he leaned in, mimicking the shorter man's motion moments earlier, "s'year's of cannon blast, I suppose, you want me to do what exactly?"
"Repent, son, repent of your wickedness so that the arms of the Lord will be open unto you," in full tones he pretends to be delivering a sermon, to be preaching the forgiveness of Heaven, offered, tax-free, to any and all who accept. But through gritted teeth, he whispers, "if I were you, I think I would prefer to do that before the floor opens."
Jack Sparrow laughs, riotously, in such a fashion that, if his hands were not tied, and the situation completely different, he'd of doubled over. It is full, and alive, and part of her wants the entire thing to come to a close right then and there, just so that sound can be the last thing she hears.
"In all truth, and I feel like I can be honest with you here, Cotton, doyoumindifIcallyouCotton?, because you're a, a, oh hell, well you have a sympathetic face, is all,"
He most certainly does not, and she cannot help but let a tiny giggle escape, and escaping very nearly with it, an attempt to shush Jack. Though, she supposed in the moment, no amount of back talk could change the outcome at this point. Sparrow continues, trying very hard to perform his usual mannerisms, but finding the task rather difficult, being bound and all, "so, actually, sir, I think if you were me, I'd be an impotent shit of a man intent on ordering others about in some sort of twisted attempt to compensate for something, or, uh, other," he offers her a sideways glance, and shrugs lightly, "don't know, luv, what d'you think? You've had experience with eunuchs."
The beating of her heart defies the execution drum, always hitting the off note, as though deliberate, and she, struggling against her own ties, wipes her palms against the fabric of her skirts. She does not flinch, or stir, at the sound of the back of puritanical hand making connection with piratical face. She instead disassociates herself, most effectively, managing to instead spend horrible moments reflecting on some precious, slurred memory, and in the space between, she hovers amid a desperate attempt at intervention, or fainting.
"Please," she could whimper, in some attempt to play off the common male mistake of underestimating anything of the female persuasion, she could, if she could spare the dignity, squeeze out some tears of contrition on behalf of of their unfortunate, dirty souls. One quickly becomes accustomed to the sound of begging upon going a'pyrating, the pathetic attempt of sailors and merchants to save their property, or lives. Usually, it is the former, but such men, men of means, and station, so frequently confuse it with the later. Now it is humbling, and nearly terrifying to become the beggar; now, it stands as shackled proof of a glacial reality completely unconcerned with the perception of a optimistic few, it stands, in the pathetic shape of an unkempt lover, as agonizing testimony of how very small we all are, in the face of permanence.
The beating of her heart defies the execution itself, always hitting on the off note, as though deliberate. She does not flinch, or stir as the drum beats louder, only steps out of the situation, and manages instead to hide in some precious slur of a memory, and in the space between, there is nothing.
past
It was two weeks since the Armada had retreated, one day since Jack had returned, soaked, and swearing, three minutes since Will's absence had crashed over her features, as if only just remembered. Their initial interaction had been as per usual: pretense, innuendo, and the slight taste of things he refused to think, let alone say aloud. Perched like statues on a dune, two empty bottles thrown carelessly to the periphery, he did not remind her of the spread of a decade, only kept watch, with her, over her, in reserved understanding of her need to keep hoping.
That she had not eaten was obvious, though how long it had been he could not tell. Only that her skin was dull, and her hair, still stripped and crisped by salt-water. It was for this reason, and this reason alone, that he broke silence.
"All right, darling, wake's over, can't sit here for ten years; you need to eat something."
She did not stir, but sat in a self-possessed wind that swept the hair from her face; she had stopped crying, it seemed, only as a byproduct of exhaustion. Her fingers were knuckle deep in sand, digging in, and pulling out, occasionally making absent drawings to keep her mind busy. Though his words could, on the surface, be considered partially callous, she was glad for his veiled concern, and most of all, for his company.
"He's not coming back, is he?"
It sounded naive, she knew, and even as the words left her mouth she was repulsed by their child-like implications. He stirred, beside her, hesitating in the space between answering honestly, and putting his arm around her. In the end he decided on the former, for the sake of appearances, and tradition.
"In time," his tone was low, and soothing; something akin to a caress, or the embrace that he could not bring himself to offer, "he'll not be gone forever."
She nodded soundlessly, and connected with his gaze, never tiring of the way he left his mouth a fraction of the way open after speaking, or the crease that formed between his brows when knit, indicating concern. He gave a little smile, and jerked his arm, as though it had tried, of it's own accord, to comfort her again, and he would not have it.
"An' I don't think he'd fancy you sitting here all alone the entire time."
"I'm not alone," she returns his smile, still despite her attempts against it, she almost repeats the words, to remind herself, "you're with me, now."
"That I am, luv," they fall silent again, for a fraction, both seeming almost fearful of the statement's double-meaning; she shifts, picks at her hem; he digs the heel of his boot into sand, and chuckles, unexpectedly, "though, I expect he'd be less than pleased with that knowledge, as well."
She laughs, strained, and distant, trying to ignore the truth lying between the lines, trying only to hear the waves, and the distant hint of Will's voice in her ear saying, "keep a weather eye on the horizon,"; as hours creep on, it is distorted, unrecognizable, til she can scarcely recall his face. "No, no, you saved his life, I believe he'd be glad to know there was someone to look in on me. He'd be glad to know it was you."
He could think of a few other husbands throughout his life that had made similar mistakes, but kept the thought to himself; this was different, as well they both knew, though neither of them were likely to admit it. "Well then we mustn't have his trust misplaced then," he was standing to his feet, dusting sand from his breeches, and thrusting his right hand into her line of sight, "to the fortress, your highness?"
Her frown is returned, a great pout that was exaggerated for the purposes of mockery, "Come now, Lizzy, I won't have you wasting away," she takes his hand, and he pulls her up, "the dinghy'll be able to navigate the entrance well enough, s'called the 'Devil's Throat', you know. Sounds promising, I think."
*
("Take me with you,")
She breathes wasted breath, gasping in time with the heavy staccato of his thrusts, and in desperate sync with the caress of cellos, and the head rush of kisses without reason.
("For chrissake, Jack, say something before I lose my nerve.")
The dim haze of memory recalls a bound hand covering her mouth, lest the entire performance should be interrupted; opera houses are not accustomed to the culture of alleyways. The blame could be split in this endeavor, half caused by an offhand statement, the mention that she'd always loved music, and would kill, well, someone, to have a box to her own devices again... rather, to her impulsive inclinations.
He'd shrugged, a half-hearted rise and fall of his shoulders, and gave a impish wink between grins that told her she'd started something, though what she couldn't say. He'd shrugged, as though things like tickets, money, and stature were not things that brigands required to get their way; shrugged as though the rules had never applied to him, and he'd be damned to let them start now.
Three weeks at sea had dropped them somewhere in the vicinity of Venice, and she could not help but glow at the prospect. Half an hour on land found her corseted again, this time of her own accord (due in large part to the process by which she was certain it would be removed), wearing the finest clothes a lack of money could pilfer, and one hour after that,
she breathes wasted breath, gasping in time with the heavy staccato of his thrusts, and in desperate sync with the caress of cellos, singing a choking, wordless aria of flight.
("Thought you'd never ask, luv.")
*
Upon standing he came very quickly to the vocalized conclusion that perhaps his legs had had a bit too much to drink. Being the damned things wouldn't work properly and it, of course, had nothing to do with the amount of alcohol that his mouth had previously consumed. To assume the later, you see, would be sheer madness, as it was clearly the legs who had the problem.
She gazed upward from her cross-legged position, looked up, red-eyed, but smiling, and somehow managed to not vocalize her conclusion that the precarious locks framing his face made maintaining pure intention difficult, at absolute best.
They had taken to celebrating the night by digging unwitting graves in the sand, dug out with shovels made of rebellion, and a detrimental faith in the effectiveness of running away quick enough. They had taken, in recent weeks, to howling at the moon, spinning like mad unfortunates, shouting only ever "life!" at the top of lungs bubbling over with enthusiasm, and the dangerous naivete of the hopelessly hopeful. Society, however, is a deaf beast, stalking after strays, and dreamers with insatiable hunger.
"Well," she reasoned, surprised, and oddly proud of the slur falling from her lips, "if it is, in fact, your legs that are causing the problem I see only two options, dear Captain," he watched her face like a mirror, watched it morph into his own half preemptive apology of a nervous smile, and quickly fade to nonexpression, "one: we chop them off right here and now," she swats down his potential response, waving wildly, as though he shouldn't be concerned, "don't worry, I've got a machete right here, s'no problem at all."
He takes a step back, and then another, and two more, but before he can get any further the entire scene elicits her unrestrained laughter, "Or, or, or," her tone takes on a soothing air, though the suspicious face he makes, in combonation with the worried glance at his legs suggets that it wasn't near so soothing as she'd hoped, "or, you could just sit back down. Personally, I think that option seems the less extreme of the two, but it's up to you, of course."
"Can't."
"Can't what? Sit, or make up your mind? Cause I have really have to suggest that were I in your position, I should think the legs would be more impo--"
"No, no, no, damnable woman," he says this with a look of affection, and the glimmer of an almost smile, "can't sit back down, then, you see, we would suffer the most horrible consequence of missing the party."
She quirks one brow, abruptly followed by the other, "The what now?"
"Party, luv, I'm quite sure that all those books you filled your pretty little head with informed you that pirates enjoy nothing more than a riotous combination of music, dance, and drink. You've witnessed our politics, darling, dear, but you've never seen our parties."
"Well," she says, very nearly starting to stand, and thinking the better of it, "I see only two problems with the scenario,"
"Two again? Have you been studying the ancient art of numerology behind my back? Is there---"
"Shut it, Sparrow."
"Ma'am." There is a tiny flourish, just enough to make it abundantly clear that the title was sheer mockery, and he fell silent.
"First, there is the issue that I have had entirely too much rum, and I, unlike you, have decided not to try and pass the blame off on a set of poor, unassuming legs," his protest, amusing though it may have been, was silenced quickly, with a wave of her hand, the continued explanation, "and second, well, second is that if I recall all of those books correctly, you've left out an essential part of the, ah, repertoire."
"Which is?"
"The women, naturally. The beautiful, rouge covered, ladies of high Tortugan society. I would simply hate to think that I was the thing standing between you and syphilis. I honestly do not know if I'd be able to continue sleeping at night with such a thing on my conscience."
His weight is heavy next to her, and he sits, again, in their grave of sand, and insurrection. The corrupt pitch of his eyes flicker for a moment, and a wicked smirk passes across his features, he moves toward her, a close lack of caution, the sticky hot of fermented sugarcane clinging to the column flesh over her now visible pulse.
"Then, my little pirate, they'll have to wait their turn, won't they?"
*
("Do you trust me?")
"Listen, darling, an' do not, whatever else may happen, ever forget this,"
The Armada is not defeated, and it's retreats are far from permanent. Rather, it pulls back only far enough to earn the complacency of it's intended victim, leaves it's target to a merry round of drinks, completely unaware of the world pressing down, and in, like a crushing cloud. Before the week is out she knows they'll be speaking through dead, and martyred mouths; dancing against the twitching liberty found at rope's end. His tone is low, and rushed, and something about it is all so horribly familiar that she cannot help but tense at the fear dancing behind eyes made of fire, and onyx defiance.
"You, when they come, and they will come; you'll tell them you were forced, tell them you've been kidnapped, and raped, and suffered horrible tortures at my hands, you'll tell them anything you have to," There is a gravity in his voice she has never heard, and does not care to hear again. A sort of defeated acknowledgment that the jig is, most decidedly, up. He is stripped bare of legend, and myth; stripped of circular sarcastic reasoning, and the levity of humor. There is a gravity in his voice that calls to mind the white lines spidering up his arms, and the echo in screaming in her ears, "no truth at all."
For a fraction of a moment she opens and closes her mouth, straddling the chasm between choosing her words carefully, or turning into the very epitome of hysterical female. In the end, though, there is a middle ground; all options weighed, there is a line in the sand, and this is where she has chosen to carve it.
"I will do no such thing! I came of my own accord, Jack, you didn't force me at all, I--"
"---will do exactly as I said. I am the Captain of this ship, and you'll--"
"Jack Sparrow, do not dare presume to pull rank on me! In case you've forgotten, you voted me King, and in case you've decided not to care, I can always challenge your position aboard this ship. Shall I send for Mister Gibbs?" Rage flies across his face, flutters, and bats it's wings, leaving him red-faced, and attempting to speak through gritted teeth, and knit brow. She waves him down before he is offered the chance, a simple conclusion to her position, arms folded across her chest in a show of resolve, "That's not what I want to do, but if you leave me no choice ...." there is a brief pause, her eyes grow wide at the prospect of tears, and she stares, unblinking, in attempt to air dry the accumulating weakness. When she meets his gaze again, his face is wild, near the point of begging. She looks away, looks down, looks anywhere but there, "as I've said, I am aboard this ship because I chose to be, and I will be damned if I allow you to take the fall for my actions. Do not push me, Jack, do not."
Had the situation been less dire, he'd of applauded her audacity, her independence, her completely reckless disregard for the way things typically go, and even for the ease with which she'd taken to swearing. Had the situation been less dire, he'd not of pushed her then, quite literally, against the wall of his quarter's, blocking any and all exit she may have taken. Perhaps, on any other given day,
"We are not play acting, Elizabeth! This is not some game! This is not a fairy tale!" His breath is hot on her cheek, and she turns away from the decibels of his desperation, away from everyone unspoken piece of blame he was lying on himself for her situation, "I knew what I was getting into, I understood the consequences, understood that no one can outrun them forever--"
"--And, what? I didn't? Is that what you're implying? Poor little rich girl, what does she know about--"
"Yes! Goddamnit, Bess, that's exactly what I'm implying. You, with your head full of stories, and belly full of longing; you, with your safety net, and the well understood, albeit silent agreement, that you could abandon this entire series of events at any time. This is not your world, luv,"
He should expected the hard feel of the back of her hand meeting his cheek, should have expected the hot, angry salt spilling from her eyes like betrayed waterfalls, should have expected all of it, but the expectation did not keep him from reeling backward, and further back still, removing himself from the wildly wagging finger thrust in his face, and the shrill, entirely literal screaming now bubbling over, and out of her chest.
"If this is not my world, then what is? Should I go back to my tower? What do you suggest?" Each despondent question is punctuated by a hard palm meeting sternum, "What now does the all-knowing, all-lucky Captain Jack Sparrow have to say about the things he's told me before, all the bits about living moment to moment, the part where you said the grisly end was worth it? The man who told me he saw no reason for a woman to be treated as fragile, docile, and useless, this man now stands before me saying, what? That I should shed some tears, beg for my life, plead my belly, accuse you,---" her voice hitches here, something like the throat starting to close and thinking the better of it, "--accuse the man I lo--, I cannot, I cannot abandon you to this fate, I cannot abandon you to the consequence of my free action, and I refuse to turn and run."
He does not stop her from her show of aggression, but is jostled with each strike; he does not stop her, because part of him knows full well he deserves it, though only for some of the reasons she thinks. Quietly, and cautiously, he resigns. Quietly, and cautiously, and without the conviction, or courage to meet her eyes, he responds.
"I shouldn't have filled your head with stories, Lilibet, shouldn't have told you there was hope hidden places staying hidden. I believed because I had to, I believed because it was the only thing worth doing, I shouldn't have infected you with, with," he sighs, heavy, but not resigned, sighs again, flinches as though the next words from his mouth could very well earn the back of her other hand, and he'd deserve it just as much as the first time, the desperate decibels have lowered, barely above a harsh whisper this time around, but the sting of his words was enough, "-- those stories are what brought you here, the boredom of your, what'd you call it, tower.. you had everything the world could offer, and wanted none of it; had everything, and wanted none of it simply because you could have it. There are men aboard this very ship who, for lack of their position aboard, would be lying in a filth covered ditch, or working for a slave-driver of a merchant Captain; men who are crippled, and gnarled, and here because we had no where else to go, or hide. You, luv, you made your choice, and now, you can unmake it. I'm telling you, you're off the hook, you're--"
This time, he saw the flying hand coming, caught it mid-air, but this did not keep her from wrenching free, and then, after a heavy moment of pause, forcefully pushing past him, up the stairs, above deck, and this most unfortunate conversation.
("I trust you.")
*
He had long extolled the strange virtue of moonlight looming through clouds, pushing through prison bars, illuminating plans of seemingly inevitable escape. He'd said you have to know the cage before you can truly appreciate it's lacking; sometimes, he said, figuring your way out of jail was as good a lesson as one could hope for.
Jack Sparrow is a shadow of himself sitting in the corner of a cell, the entire place covered with the smell of urine, and death; the smell of stale hope, and bread. The shadow starts at the creak of the door opening, and another unlucky soul being thrust unceremoniously onto the stone floor. His eyes widen, narrow, and widen again, an attempt to save face until the solider is down the hall, and out of sight.
He pulls her from the floor with both hands, lifts her up by the shoulders and examines the cut on her left cheek, and swollen purple of her eye; shakes her hard, very nearly screaming,
"What did you tell them?"
"The truth." She coughs, and he loosens his hold, "I told them the truth, Jack."
His face falls, and he silently sits back down again, indicating that she may as well do the same.
Choice, not change, is the ultimate determiner of destiny; action, not fate, serves as catalyst. There is no security to be found under any stone on this divided earth, where each of the spoiled children of men has taken his share, and then some. There is only, eternally, ceaseless possibility, breaking brackish with an unapologetic ocean of blind turns, and staggered upon opportunity.
"I guess we'll go to hell together, then, luv."
She shrugs, a tiny shrug that tries to pretend it is not the end, and laughs a tiny hopeful laugh, "I was hoping for the second circle, myself."
"You may have it yet, darling. You may yet."
future
Men spoke in hushed below deck voices, in hurried, inspired tones; they spoke of Mission, and his Liberi, as though something animal had been awakened inside them. These men, with their hard, scarred hards, turned sandpaper through labor, and a self-selling installment plan, these men with their twisted, mangled bodies, were not near so broken in spirit, and talked, til they were blue in the face; each of them with a Libertalia in their hearts, a proud and mad utopia built of nothing left to lose.
They talked until it almost didn't matter if the man had ever existed, at all.
In landlocked churches, and townships, pamphleteers and Puritans warned against the piratical seduction, cautioning everyone that these beasts had been known to meddle with prudent women, and worser still, it was whispered that there were some women who welcomed the prospect. These monsters, dripping with blood, and rum, no more, and no less than the common enemy of all mankind, would tempt the ill-fated Eve, and call away rebellious children, bribing them with games, and treasure; they would most assuredly lead an uprising amongst the slaves.
It is said that this war was won by British cannon, and fleet; it is said that piracy is dead, and gone, that capital, and property have prevailed beyond all denial. But, there is a sort of cadence to the world, an endless cycle of oppression, and it's throwing off. Revolt is as base an instinct as breathing, it only requires of a different set of circumstances. We are a people of struggle, and defiance. We are a people who's stories have been lost to centuries, and the histories of biased men. We are a people made villains by self-proclaimed heroes; those who simply had the luxury of surviving long enough to stack the narration in their favor. Beneath parrots, and eye patches, there is truth. One need only peel away at the layers of popular culture to see the human spirit, entrails laid bare, but resolute, and for one bright shining moment in the annals of eternity, barely more than two thousand of us lead the way, carving a determined route toward an illusive horizon.
Men determined to speak above decks, in slower, but equally inspired tones. They did not only speak of Mission, and his Liberi; they set out on voyages off the edge of the world, and gave their short, but merry lives to stand as immortal, living proof that the despotic demands of the day-to-day are not ultimate. These men, with their hard, scarred hands, and twisted bodies gave weapons to slaves, and gin to housewives. They lived audaciously, and fearlessly, not so that others could do so vicariously, but so they could see that they too could follow.
And as we speak of them now, it almost ceases to matter whether they had ever existed, at all.