(no subject)
TITLE: 11 Years Later
PAIRING: Jack/Elizabeth, Will/Elizabeth
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Aha, betcha didn't think I'd be back so soon! Anyhow, here's part 8 in my little drama. I never really do song-fic, mostly because I feel that it's a really fine line to tread, making it work, and actually incorporating lyrics into the overall mood, but I couldn't not use this song, so I hope that it comes across the way I wanted it to. The song is Iron and Wine - Swans and the Swimming, and I haven't met anyone yet than can deny it's utterly painful Sparrabeth perfection. I intend to continue this, I've decided, and thicken the plot a bit, but you'll see that next chapter. ♥
Previous parts are below:
I-III, IV-V, VI, & VII
VIII
"Take me again," she said, thinking of him
"the the pond with the swans, and the swimming,"
far from his room, the familiar perfume;
how it felt to her when she was naked.
She sits, in the dull glow of oil light, waif-thin, and bone-weary, throwing balls of wasted parchment at the wall, hands spotted with ink, and aching; William snoring softly somewhere behind her. The crumpled bits of paper form a mountain, taunting her from the corner of their tiny room, in their tiny house, that he had insisted upon building. She reaches to push hair from her eyes, absently smearing black across her forehead, and, defeated, holds the last remnants of unsent words to the flame, watching her name burn to ash in such a manner that, either for lack of sleep, or general despondency, seems to mean something.
Lessons she learned, when her memory slurs,
as they marvel with love at the sunset.
Walking away, at the dark end of the day,
she will measure, and break, like a habit.
*
He does not think of Elizabeth, at all. And anyone who would suggest such scandal should, rightly, be keel-hauled on the spot. A most unfortunate parrot had made the mistake of suggesting it, and had since not found the nerve to come down from the crow's nest. He thinks about her so little, in fact, that he worries at night, without form, or language, over grayish skin, and circles beneath umber eyes. Which would have been fine, ducky, even, had all the rum not been drunk. Had he not, somewhere near the bottom of the last bottle, been forced to recall careful persuasions, and curiosity.
*
The lights of the fortress do not burn as they used to, and it's permanent tenants are ghosts who've returned, restless, from the gallows of Kingston, and Nassau; from the Chesapeake, and Norfolk. At night, she walks by the water, and has imagined conversation with the specter of Bartholomew Roberts, while Grace O'Malley makes sad comment on her vacant days, and in their shadow, she cannot deny the wisdom of Blackbeard's laughter, full, and merry, riding the wind.
Oh, how the rain sounds loud as a lover's words,
and now and again, she's afraid when the sun returns.
*
He bursts, finally, from his cabin hurried, unkempt, and delirious, looking as though another long dead friend had come to warn him of creeping demise.
"Gibbs!" He shouts across the deck, no regard for the hour, or the startled jump that causes the sleeping quartermaster to stumble backward, and lay a quick hand to the helm, as though he'd been there all along.
"Yes, Cap'n?" Comes the reply, between stolen, nervous sips from his flask.
"Make sail for Shipwreck Cove. All haste, and all that."
"But--"
"---all haste, Master Gibbs, every last spectacular drop of it."
"Aye sir, be there by morning, but," there's hesitation, due in large part to the simple fact that no member of the crew particularly wanted to end up hiding in the crow's nest with Cotton's parrot, "well, it's just that, Miss Eliza---"
"No!" His hands fly to his ears, and he screws his eyes shut, "No! No, no. No? No! No. No. No. Lala, lalalalaacannothearyou." If the image of a grown man dancing about in such manner hadn't been so amusing, it may have been sad. But Joshamee was well aware of the Captain's vexations, and their responsible party. Jack lowers his hands after a moment, hesitantly, eying the other man, as though afraid he might attempt to say certain names again.
Names he was certainly not thinking about, at all.
There's a beat, in which Gibbs begins to take another sip, but is robbed by a desperate madman who empties the container in one breath, before continuing. "The point is, Master Gibbs, that your point is decidedly east of my point, and a bit south of the point we, meaning I, your Captain, wish to arrive at; and what, for the purposes of securing our destination, was that point, again?"
The quartermaster sighs, finished, and, speaking in a resigned monotone, takes back the flask. "Shipwreck Cove."
Jack considers his compass, chewing his lip furiously, and shifting to avoid eye contact, "Shipwreck Cove."
*
"Take me again," she said, thinking of him,
"I don't care for this careful behavior,"
a brush through her hair, children kissing upstairs,
keeps her up with her want for her savior.
She thinks of him during thunderstorms; impetuous, and unexpected as his visits. The rain falling in quiet whispers at the window rouses her in the dark, early hours, and she drifts outside, barely waking, to wash the domestication seeping through her pores.
*
The sun on the sand, on her knees and her hands,
as she begs for her fish from the water.
But turn then away, she's a whip and slave
given time she may find something better.
By the time anchor reaches sea-bottom, he's in the longboat, rowing toward shore, cursing himself, quite literally, all the while. Lass better have a fine excuse for keeping me waiting, but neither the thought, nor the stinging pain shooting up both arms, slow his rowing, making me come all this way, like a bloody giddy schoolboy, not even when the clouds break open, and he turns to see the Pearl's lamps doused, and hidden, does he turn back.
"Bugger."
Somewhere, deep inside his mind, Captain Jack Sparrow grimaces, and reminds he knew it was a bad idea, all along.
*
Squinting against torrential downpour, she makes out the darkened outline of a ship, past the tree line, and scattered rows of sand dunes. Her mind clamors as to the frivolity of hope, but the heart lodged in her throat defies reason, and safety, and she hurries in it's direction, sopping wet, and freezing.
He is there, back-turned, pulling the boat up on land, muttering, no doubt indignant, things she cannot hear.
He is there, only just turning to meet her elated smile, the strangled half-sob of a relieved laugh, and the sudden lack of apprehension that catapults her toward him, on feet that, at least for the moment, cannot recall accountability.
She says nothing for a moment, rather pointedly, and, consumed, moves the line of beads that had fallen in his face.
"I did write, I just,"
"I know, Lilibet."
The last flicker of roguish apathy leaves his face, and he takes her still inked hand, kissing the tops of stained fingers, each separately, like pitiful confessions. He is dark-eyed, and ageless, between streaks of lightning that split the horizon, "I know."
Oh, how the rain sounds loud as a lover's words,
and now and again, she's afraid when the sun returns.
PAIRING: Jack/Elizabeth, Will/Elizabeth
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Aha, betcha didn't think I'd be back so soon! Anyhow, here's part 8 in my little drama. I never really do song-fic, mostly because I feel that it's a really fine line to tread, making it work, and actually incorporating lyrics into the overall mood, but I couldn't not use this song, so I hope that it comes across the way I wanted it to. The song is Iron and Wine - Swans and the Swimming, and I haven't met anyone yet than can deny it's utterly painful Sparrabeth perfection. I intend to continue this, I've decided, and thicken the plot a bit, but you'll see that next chapter. ♥
Previous parts are below:
I-III, IV-V, VI, & VII
VIII
"Take me again," she said, thinking of him
"the the pond with the swans, and the swimming,"
far from his room, the familiar perfume;
how it felt to her when she was naked.
She sits, in the dull glow of oil light, waif-thin, and bone-weary, throwing balls of wasted parchment at the wall, hands spotted with ink, and aching; William snoring softly somewhere behind her. The crumpled bits of paper form a mountain, taunting her from the corner of their tiny room, in their tiny house, that he had insisted upon building. She reaches to push hair from her eyes, absently smearing black across her forehead, and, defeated, holds the last remnants of unsent words to the flame, watching her name burn to ash in such a manner that, either for lack of sleep, or general despondency, seems to mean something.
Lessons she learned, when her memory slurs,
as they marvel with love at the sunset.
Walking away, at the dark end of the day,
she will measure, and break, like a habit.
*
He does not think of Elizabeth, at all. And anyone who would suggest such scandal should, rightly, be keel-hauled on the spot. A most unfortunate parrot had made the mistake of suggesting it, and had since not found the nerve to come down from the crow's nest. He thinks about her so little, in fact, that he worries at night, without form, or language, over grayish skin, and circles beneath umber eyes. Which would have been fine, ducky, even, had all the rum not been drunk. Had he not, somewhere near the bottom of the last bottle, been forced to recall careful persuasions, and curiosity.
*
The lights of the fortress do not burn as they used to, and it's permanent tenants are ghosts who've returned, restless, from the gallows of Kingston, and Nassau; from the Chesapeake, and Norfolk. At night, she walks by the water, and has imagined conversation with the specter of Bartholomew Roberts, while Grace O'Malley makes sad comment on her vacant days, and in their shadow, she cannot deny the wisdom of Blackbeard's laughter, full, and merry, riding the wind.
Oh, how the rain sounds loud as a lover's words,
and now and again, she's afraid when the sun returns.
*
He bursts, finally, from his cabin hurried, unkempt, and delirious, looking as though another long dead friend had come to warn him of creeping demise.
"Gibbs!" He shouts across the deck, no regard for the hour, or the startled jump that causes the sleeping quartermaster to stumble backward, and lay a quick hand to the helm, as though he'd been there all along.
"Yes, Cap'n?" Comes the reply, between stolen, nervous sips from his flask.
"Make sail for Shipwreck Cove. All haste, and all that."
"But--"
"---all haste, Master Gibbs, every last spectacular drop of it."
"Aye sir, be there by morning, but," there's hesitation, due in large part to the simple fact that no member of the crew particularly wanted to end up hiding in the crow's nest with Cotton's parrot, "well, it's just that, Miss Eliza---"
"No!" His hands fly to his ears, and he screws his eyes shut, "No! No, no. No? No! No. No. No. Lala, lalalalaacannothearyou." If the image of a grown man dancing about in such manner hadn't been so amusing, it may have been sad. But Joshamee was well aware of the Captain's vexations, and their responsible party. Jack lowers his hands after a moment, hesitantly, eying the other man, as though afraid he might attempt to say certain names again.
Names he was certainly not thinking about, at all.
There's a beat, in which Gibbs begins to take another sip, but is robbed by a desperate madman who empties the container in one breath, before continuing. "The point is, Master Gibbs, that your point is decidedly east of my point, and a bit south of the point we, meaning I, your Captain, wish to arrive at; and what, for the purposes of securing our destination, was that point, again?"
The quartermaster sighs, finished, and, speaking in a resigned monotone, takes back the flask. "Shipwreck Cove."
Jack considers his compass, chewing his lip furiously, and shifting to avoid eye contact, "Shipwreck Cove."
*
"Take me again," she said, thinking of him,
"I don't care for this careful behavior,"
a brush through her hair, children kissing upstairs,
keeps her up with her want for her savior.
She thinks of him during thunderstorms; impetuous, and unexpected as his visits. The rain falling in quiet whispers at the window rouses her in the dark, early hours, and she drifts outside, barely waking, to wash the domestication seeping through her pores.
*
The sun on the sand, on her knees and her hands,
as she begs for her fish from the water.
But turn then away, she's a whip and slave
given time she may find something better.
By the time anchor reaches sea-bottom, he's in the longboat, rowing toward shore, cursing himself, quite literally, all the while. Lass better have a fine excuse for keeping me waiting, but neither the thought, nor the stinging pain shooting up both arms, slow his rowing, making me come all this way, like a bloody giddy schoolboy, not even when the clouds break open, and he turns to see the Pearl's lamps doused, and hidden, does he turn back.
"Bugger."
Somewhere, deep inside his mind, Captain Jack Sparrow grimaces, and reminds he knew it was a bad idea, all along.
*
Squinting against torrential downpour, she makes out the darkened outline of a ship, past the tree line, and scattered rows of sand dunes. Her mind clamors as to the frivolity of hope, but the heart lodged in her throat defies reason, and safety, and she hurries in it's direction, sopping wet, and freezing.
He is there, back-turned, pulling the boat up on land, muttering, no doubt indignant, things she cannot hear.
He is there, only just turning to meet her elated smile, the strangled half-sob of a relieved laugh, and the sudden lack of apprehension that catapults her toward him, on feet that, at least for the moment, cannot recall accountability.
She says nothing for a moment, rather pointedly, and, consumed, moves the line of beads that had fallen in his face.
"I did write, I just,"
"I know, Lilibet."
The last flicker of roguish apathy leaves his face, and he takes her still inked hand, kissing the tops of stained fingers, each separately, like pitiful confessions. He is dark-eyed, and ageless, between streaks of lightning that split the horizon, "I know."
Oh, how the rain sounds loud as a lover's words,
and now and again, she's afraid when the sun returns.