"Black Waters," Chapter Twelve
Title: "Black Waters"
Author:
sheila_snow
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jack Sparrow/Will Turner
Warnings: A/U, Angst, Non-Con, Gratuitous Will Turner Abuse
Disclaimer: The Mouse owns 'em -- he just doesn't know how to treat 'em right. I'm not treating them very nice either, but I'm most certainly not making any money from this!
Summary: Will and Sarah Turner encounter the Black Pearl for the first time.
Chapter Twelve
Sarah Turner climbed down the short ladder into their temporary abode, frowning at the steadily growing wisps of fog that shrouded her vision in the already murky cabin. The fog seemed to cling to her as she descended, adhering like a live thing to her face and upper body. She shivered.
It even smelled foul - of death and desiccation, corruption and decay - nothing like the wholesomeness she normally associated with the open sea.
She paused as she reached the bottom of the ladder. From past experience, she knew she had to wait until her eyes adjusted to the gloom - the only illumination coming from the single dim, fitful lantern that the ship's captain had been cajoled into issuing them.
The fog lingered also, its tendrils painted a sickly yellow by the lurid light from the lantern, enveloping her again in its foul embrace. It seemed to hesitate, searching, then billowed off on an air current she did not feel into the darkness of the after part of the cabin.
Her eyes reluctantly followed the ghostly fog as it made its way aft, her uneasiness growing with the peculiarity of its course. It seemed to explore every inch of the dank cabin as it progressed, snaking around the heavy beams above and then sinking down to the deck, slithering along its time-worn planks.
Sarah followed it reluctantly, heart pounding. As she crept around a massive vertical support beam to their "living area," she stopped short in horror.
Her son sat on one of the lopsided cots, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, head buried. A single, malevolent tendril of the unnatural fog descended past his bowed head to disappear inside his shirt, which hung so loosely on his gaunt frame.
Knowing without conscious thought that William was in mortal danger, she opened her mouth to speak, to shout, to warn, but no sound came forth. Forcing her paralyzed body into motion, she started toward her son.
Before she had even taken two steps, the wispy fog began to coalesce, streams of gray-yellow miasma flowing past her from the open hatch in an ever-increasing flood to gather around her son. Baleful and arrogant, it seemed to hover threateningly over her William not unlike triumphant hounds surrounding a hapless fox.
Suddenly, the air around her seemed to thicken, and her steps slowed as an almost unbearable pressure built around her ears, the hair on her arms standing up as if lightning from a monumental storm were about to be unleashed.
Her son finally looked up, eyes darting wildly around him in the gloom. His eyes locked on hers for a brief, yet eternal moment before their world exploded around them.
There was a horrendous crash, the sounds of splintering wood and rushing water, and the ship groaned in agony as she heeled far over to port. Sarah fell against the bulkhead, dazed, struggling to rise against the extreme canting of the ship's deck.
Their lantern, hastily hung and ill-secured, crashed to the floor and rolled away, casting the cabin into an almost impenetrable blackness.
The ship labored slowly to right herself, the planks beneath her feet rippling with its distress, and Sarah heard as if from afar the sounds of frantic, shouting men, the trundle of gun trucks and the triumphant surge of water where it had absolutely no right to be.
As the deck reluctantly leveled, Sarah tried to push off against the bulkhead, feeling the smooth wood quivering underneath her hands with the rhythmic, dull pounding of the pumps. Her head darted around frantically, momentarily disoriented from the darkness and shock.
She heard a hushed, "Mother?" above the ringing in her ears and headed toward its source, stumbling unseeing and uncaring over items cast adrift by the violent motions of the ship, hands outstretched, desperately seeking her son.
Then suddenly, for a brief moment, she could see again as a bright flash carved vermillion and gold daggers into her eyes. She saw her son reaching toward her from where he had been thrown to the deck, saw the heavy beam falling above him, could even see the tears tracking down his young and innocent face.
Then she heard the thunderous boom that followed that brief period of light, felt the planks below her heave with a tortured groan, throwing her back away from her son. She thought she could even hear the plaintive, ethereal whistling of what must be cannon shot . . .
. . . and then she could see no more.
_____________________
His grandmother had been right.
As young William Turner lay beneath a splintered but still solid wooden beam - seawater already caressing his trapped body - he mentally begged her forgiveness for not listening to her. He had been disobedient and selfish, and now he would simply have to pay the price.
He knew that the pirates had come to take him. He had visited the docks often enough to learn that no other ship would fire on a merchant vessel without so much as a warning shot. He pressed his hands tightly against his eyes, forcing back his tears.
Maybe if he went with the pirates willingly, they would leave his mother alone.
He tried again to wriggle his trapped lower legs from the restraining beam, his movements a little more desperate now as he felt the water continuing to rise around him.
Where was his mother?
He choked back a sob. It was all his fault. If he hadn't opened the chest, none of this would have happened. His mother had trusted him, hadn't locked the chest, and he had selfishly eaten every last crumb of their only remaining food.
She would be so upset with him. Even with the pervasive darkness pressing against his eyelids, he could see the sadness in his mother's eyes, see her shaking her head in hopeless disappointment, see her turn away from him in muted sorrow.
She might even starve to death before they made port, and it would be all his fault.
His throat constricted in anguish. "Mother!" he called, needing to get his confession over with, needing to make sure that she would still love him . . . even with his disobedience.
There was no reply, only the continued shouts and screams from the decks above, the sharp reports of the few remaining sporadically firing cannons and the ever-present sounds of the encroaching, traitorous water.
He had to raise himself up on his hands now to keep his head above that water, his lower body now completely engulfed. He struggled again, alarmed. If he were to drown, who would save his mother? Would the pirates take her instead if he were to die?
Flailing with one outstretched hand, he tried to feel for something, anything, to help him lift the beam off his legs. He heard the dull splashes his reaching hand made, but could see nothing. It was so black in here, so disturbingly, depressingly, frighteningly black.
The old carpenter's mate whom Will had struck up a friendship with had told him many stories about the sea, and Will had spent long hours listening to that amiable, gravelly voice as the man whittled away on his scrimshaw. The old man had told Will about the black waters . . . the deepest, quietest part of the ocean where the currents ran cold and dark, peaceful and timeless, unsullied and free - the heart of the ocean, he had called it. The man's voice held such wistfulness that Will had sat enthralled as he spoke of it.
The Caribbean, he had told Will, ". . . is summat like sailin' in a bathtub, 'cause it not be deep enough nor wild enough to rival the true ocean. A real sailor, lad, always yearns for them black waters, that 'e does."
Will squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden onslaught of tears, wondering if the gentle old man would ever return to the heart of the ocean he loved so much, or if Will would be the cause of his death, as well.
When he finally reopened his eyes, he glanced around in surprise as he noticed a slight lightening of the oppressive gloom around him. Looking upwards, he finally spotted the source, a smallish splintered hole in the planks above him where a disquieting orange glow flickered menacingly.
The ship was on fire!
Water lapped against his chin now, even with his arms fully stretched to their limits, and Will felt the first few pangs of pure terror. He twisted around, trying with one hand to move the stubborn beam, but he knew it to be a futile effort . . . at least by himself.
He looked around wildly. "Mother!" he called yet again, his eyes desperately searching the small area of the cabin that the feeble glow illuminated.
The ship canted suddenly violently to port as yet another deafening blast struck against her aging hull. He heard the ship groan, heard a sharp, splintering crack and more screams as one of the towering masts snapped itself free from its mountings belowdecks and crashed over the side.
Free of the weight of the broken mast and its rigging, the ship slowly and sluggishly rolled back to starboard . . . and Will felt the pressure on his legs ease slightly.
He pulled against the weight still remaining, but the rapidly rising water level was making it ever more difficult to get any leverage. The ship rocked violently again and this time the water lapped over his head. His head finally broke free as the wave passed, and he gasped and choked on the brackish water he had inadvertently swallowed.
Eyes wide, Will strained his neck to keep above the water . . . the black water that was even now being painted orange with the brush of encroaching flames. At least he was not cold, and he was not surprised to find that the water was as warm and as cloying as blood.
There was yet another crash, and the ship this time did not pitch as sharply, riding as she did so much lower in the water. However, the waves inside the hold rolled almost continually now, and he struggled to get his mouth above them for a few more precious breaths.
Then, through the dense, unnatural fog that still somehow lingered in the rapidly drowning hold, he saw his mother.
She was moving towards him on the gentle waves, hand outstretched, her glossy auburn hair shining through the sickly fog and catching highlights from the flickering flames above. She was so beautiful, so graceful, and he knew she would forgive him . . . knew that she'd always love him.
"Mama, I'm so sorry . . . I didn't mean to eat . . . the last of the food. I really didn't . . . but I was so hungry."
He had to gasp out the words between the waves, swallowing ever more of the vile water, but she had to hear him. She had to.
He hadn't meant to be bad, hadn't meant to be disobedient, and surely she would forgive him. Surely. . . .
Gulping a last desperate breath as the water crested completely and permanently over his head, he watched from beneath its warm embrace as his mother approached . . . as stately and serene as a graceful schooner on the waves. The water was darker around her though, so very much darker, and Will was sure it was the lack of air that was shadowing his vision.
But his mother would surely help him, his mother would save him. His mother would . . . forgive him. He really didn’t want to go with the pirates. He didn’t.
As he waited patiently for his mother to come closer, he cried endless, futile tears that mingled imperceptibly with the salt of the bitter ocean.
The ship heaved again and the weight lifted from his legs, but Will Turner could only watch in unmoving anguish as his mother came up to him, seemed to hesitate, then glided past him, silent and cold, into the impenetrable darkness beyond his sight.
---------------------------------
Author:
sheila_snow
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jack Sparrow/Will Turner
Warnings: A/U, Angst, Non-Con, Gratuitous Will Turner Abuse
Disclaimer: The Mouse owns 'em -- he just doesn't know how to treat 'em right. I'm not treating them very nice either, but I'm most certainly not making any money from this!
Summary: Will and Sarah Turner encounter the Black Pearl for the first time.
Chapter Twelve
Sarah Turner climbed down the short ladder into their temporary abode, frowning at the steadily growing wisps of fog that shrouded her vision in the already murky cabin. The fog seemed to cling to her as she descended, adhering like a live thing to her face and upper body. She shivered.
It even smelled foul - of death and desiccation, corruption and decay - nothing like the wholesomeness she normally associated with the open sea.
She paused as she reached the bottom of the ladder. From past experience, she knew she had to wait until her eyes adjusted to the gloom - the only illumination coming from the single dim, fitful lantern that the ship's captain had been cajoled into issuing them.
The fog lingered also, its tendrils painted a sickly yellow by the lurid light from the lantern, enveloping her again in its foul embrace. It seemed to hesitate, searching, then billowed off on an air current she did not feel into the darkness of the after part of the cabin.
Her eyes reluctantly followed the ghostly fog as it made its way aft, her uneasiness growing with the peculiarity of its course. It seemed to explore every inch of the dank cabin as it progressed, snaking around the heavy beams above and then sinking down to the deck, slithering along its time-worn planks.
Sarah followed it reluctantly, heart pounding. As she crept around a massive vertical support beam to their "living area," she stopped short in horror.
Her son sat on one of the lopsided cots, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, head buried. A single, malevolent tendril of the unnatural fog descended past his bowed head to disappear inside his shirt, which hung so loosely on his gaunt frame.
Knowing without conscious thought that William was in mortal danger, she opened her mouth to speak, to shout, to warn, but no sound came forth. Forcing her paralyzed body into motion, she started toward her son.
Before she had even taken two steps, the wispy fog began to coalesce, streams of gray-yellow miasma flowing past her from the open hatch in an ever-increasing flood to gather around her son. Baleful and arrogant, it seemed to hover threateningly over her William not unlike triumphant hounds surrounding a hapless fox.
Suddenly, the air around her seemed to thicken, and her steps slowed as an almost unbearable pressure built around her ears, the hair on her arms standing up as if lightning from a monumental storm were about to be unleashed.
Her son finally looked up, eyes darting wildly around him in the gloom. His eyes locked on hers for a brief, yet eternal moment before their world exploded around them.
There was a horrendous crash, the sounds of splintering wood and rushing water, and the ship groaned in agony as she heeled far over to port. Sarah fell against the bulkhead, dazed, struggling to rise against the extreme canting of the ship's deck.
Their lantern, hastily hung and ill-secured, crashed to the floor and rolled away, casting the cabin into an almost impenetrable blackness.
The ship labored slowly to right herself, the planks beneath her feet rippling with its distress, and Sarah heard as if from afar the sounds of frantic, shouting men, the trundle of gun trucks and the triumphant surge of water where it had absolutely no right to be.
As the deck reluctantly leveled, Sarah tried to push off against the bulkhead, feeling the smooth wood quivering underneath her hands with the rhythmic, dull pounding of the pumps. Her head darted around frantically, momentarily disoriented from the darkness and shock.
She heard a hushed, "Mother?" above the ringing in her ears and headed toward its source, stumbling unseeing and uncaring over items cast adrift by the violent motions of the ship, hands outstretched, desperately seeking her son.
Then suddenly, for a brief moment, she could see again as a bright flash carved vermillion and gold daggers into her eyes. She saw her son reaching toward her from where he had been thrown to the deck, saw the heavy beam falling above him, could even see the tears tracking down his young and innocent face.
Then she heard the thunderous boom that followed that brief period of light, felt the planks below her heave with a tortured groan, throwing her back away from her son. She thought she could even hear the plaintive, ethereal whistling of what must be cannon shot . . .
. . . and then she could see no more.
_____________________
His grandmother had been right.
As young William Turner lay beneath a splintered but still solid wooden beam - seawater already caressing his trapped body - he mentally begged her forgiveness for not listening to her. He had been disobedient and selfish, and now he would simply have to pay the price.
He knew that the pirates had come to take him. He had visited the docks often enough to learn that no other ship would fire on a merchant vessel without so much as a warning shot. He pressed his hands tightly against his eyes, forcing back his tears.
Maybe if he went with the pirates willingly, they would leave his mother alone.
He tried again to wriggle his trapped lower legs from the restraining beam, his movements a little more desperate now as he felt the water continuing to rise around him.
Where was his mother?
He choked back a sob. It was all his fault. If he hadn't opened the chest, none of this would have happened. His mother had trusted him, hadn't locked the chest, and he had selfishly eaten every last crumb of their only remaining food.
She would be so upset with him. Even with the pervasive darkness pressing against his eyelids, he could see the sadness in his mother's eyes, see her shaking her head in hopeless disappointment, see her turn away from him in muted sorrow.
She might even starve to death before they made port, and it would be all his fault.
His throat constricted in anguish. "Mother!" he called, needing to get his confession over with, needing to make sure that she would still love him . . . even with his disobedience.
There was no reply, only the continued shouts and screams from the decks above, the sharp reports of the few remaining sporadically firing cannons and the ever-present sounds of the encroaching, traitorous water.
He had to raise himself up on his hands now to keep his head above that water, his lower body now completely engulfed. He struggled again, alarmed. If he were to drown, who would save his mother? Would the pirates take her instead if he were to die?
Flailing with one outstretched hand, he tried to feel for something, anything, to help him lift the beam off his legs. He heard the dull splashes his reaching hand made, but could see nothing. It was so black in here, so disturbingly, depressingly, frighteningly black.
The old carpenter's mate whom Will had struck up a friendship with had told him many stories about the sea, and Will had spent long hours listening to that amiable, gravelly voice as the man whittled away on his scrimshaw. The old man had told Will about the black waters . . . the deepest, quietest part of the ocean where the currents ran cold and dark, peaceful and timeless, unsullied and free - the heart of the ocean, he had called it. The man's voice held such wistfulness that Will had sat enthralled as he spoke of it.
The Caribbean, he had told Will, ". . . is summat like sailin' in a bathtub, 'cause it not be deep enough nor wild enough to rival the true ocean. A real sailor, lad, always yearns for them black waters, that 'e does."
Will squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden onslaught of tears, wondering if the gentle old man would ever return to the heart of the ocean he loved so much, or if Will would be the cause of his death, as well.
When he finally reopened his eyes, he glanced around in surprise as he noticed a slight lightening of the oppressive gloom around him. Looking upwards, he finally spotted the source, a smallish splintered hole in the planks above him where a disquieting orange glow flickered menacingly.
The ship was on fire!
Water lapped against his chin now, even with his arms fully stretched to their limits, and Will felt the first few pangs of pure terror. He twisted around, trying with one hand to move the stubborn beam, but he knew it to be a futile effort . . . at least by himself.
He looked around wildly. "Mother!" he called yet again, his eyes desperately searching the small area of the cabin that the feeble glow illuminated.
The ship canted suddenly violently to port as yet another deafening blast struck against her aging hull. He heard the ship groan, heard a sharp, splintering crack and more screams as one of the towering masts snapped itself free from its mountings belowdecks and crashed over the side.
Free of the weight of the broken mast and its rigging, the ship slowly and sluggishly rolled back to starboard . . . and Will felt the pressure on his legs ease slightly.
He pulled against the weight still remaining, but the rapidly rising water level was making it ever more difficult to get any leverage. The ship rocked violently again and this time the water lapped over his head. His head finally broke free as the wave passed, and he gasped and choked on the brackish water he had inadvertently swallowed.
Eyes wide, Will strained his neck to keep above the water . . . the black water that was even now being painted orange with the brush of encroaching flames. At least he was not cold, and he was not surprised to find that the water was as warm and as cloying as blood.
There was yet another crash, and the ship this time did not pitch as sharply, riding as she did so much lower in the water. However, the waves inside the hold rolled almost continually now, and he struggled to get his mouth above them for a few more precious breaths.
Then, through the dense, unnatural fog that still somehow lingered in the rapidly drowning hold, he saw his mother.
She was moving towards him on the gentle waves, hand outstretched, her glossy auburn hair shining through the sickly fog and catching highlights from the flickering flames above. She was so beautiful, so graceful, and he knew she would forgive him . . . knew that she'd always love him.
"Mama, I'm so sorry . . . I didn't mean to eat . . . the last of the food. I really didn't . . . but I was so hungry."
He had to gasp out the words between the waves, swallowing ever more of the vile water, but she had to hear him. She had to.
He hadn't meant to be bad, hadn't meant to be disobedient, and surely she would forgive him. Surely. . . .
Gulping a last desperate breath as the water crested completely and permanently over his head, he watched from beneath its warm embrace as his mother approached . . . as stately and serene as a graceful schooner on the waves. The water was darker around her though, so very much darker, and Will was sure it was the lack of air that was shadowing his vision.
But his mother would surely help him, his mother would save him. His mother would . . . forgive him. He really didn’t want to go with the pirates. He didn’t.
As he waited patiently for his mother to come closer, he cried endless, futile tears that mingled imperceptibly with the salt of the bitter ocean.
The ship heaved again and the weight lifted from his legs, but Will Turner could only watch in unmoving anguish as his mother came up to him, seemed to hesitate, then glided past him, silent and cold, into the impenetrable darkness beyond his sight.
---------------------------------