(no subject)
Title: Fiat Lux
Chapter 5: Ad Astra
Author: djarum99
Rating: R-N17, this chapter
Pairing: Jack/Elizabeth
Disclaimer: owned by the mouse in the concrete jungle, but they live in our hearts
Notes: Set post-AWE - Elizabeth attempts to come to terms with past and future choices.
A/N: A consummation, as promised. Difficult to write, as it has been done so well and so often by many other writers; an elusive thing to capture with any originality. The constellations that Jack describes are accurate, I believe, for the setting and location. I found help on a star charting website that provided configurations according to latitude, longitude, and date, in this case 1774. I wound up writing a sixth chapter, which will follow shortly with an epilogue, so this is not yet an ending.
The day that followed Elizabeth’s leap of faith, her rebirth as the woman who had chosen to align her fate with that of Captain Jack Sparrow’s, began as something of an anticlimax. Jack had sauntered on deck that morning in obvious high spirits and informed the crew that they would drop anchor at La Digue, an uninhabited granite isle northeast of the French occupied Mahé and to the east of the larger island of Praslin. Jack stated his confidence that by anchoring the Pearl on La Digue’s north shore, they could avoid contact with any stray vessels in the area. The men would be allowed a full day of well earned rest, extra rations of rum, and the chance to gather fresh fruit and to hunt the island’s plentiful small game to supplement their steady diet of fish and ship’s biscuit.
“Beautiful place it is, lads,” he elaborated, “diamond white beaches, waterfalls that dance like the loveliest of Spanish whores, huge pink boulders spread across the beachfront like a willing woman’s thighs, flocks of birds the colors of child’s candy. But beware-there are crocodiles in the estuaries bigger than longboats, giant land tortoises that can snap a man’s arm with one bite (but they make a lovely soup), and a vile little beast, half cat, half dog, that will sneak in and snatch a man’s tongue as he snores on the sand.” This last was offered with an apologetic glance at Cotton, the whole speech delivered with Jack’s customary repertoire of languid gesture and an earnest sincerity which defied skepticism.
Not that there were many skeptics among this crew, Elizabeth mused; not with regards to their captain. With the exception of Ragetti, Cotton, and Gibbs, and a handful of taciturn crewmen from Singapore, those remaining had been recruited to sail to world’s end from the encampment in Tia Dalma’s murky Caribbean sanctuary. Refugees of the African slave trade, some the direct beneficiaries of Jack’s own passionate hatred of human bondage, they were intensely loyal to him. Kalé, an immense and quietly competent Angolan, had been the one to carry Jack to the main cabin from where he lay semiconscious on the deck of their rescue ship following his return from the dead. He had ignored Barbossa’s protests with a majestic glance of contempt, and her own attempt to cling to Jack with a slow shake of his head. Gently extricating the captain’s limp body from her guilty embrace, Kalé cradled him like a child, crooned to him in his native tongue, and bore him away from her. She had felt his eyes on her many times since, tracking her actions and responses to Jack with care, using some internal magic of his own to calculate her worth and intentions. Now, she thought she saw understanding and a new warmth in Kalé’s dark eyes, as if he somehow detected her choice.
The rest of the men had also come to a casual acceptance of her, not just as someone holding a unique position with their captain, though as yet undefined, but as a crew member and equal. This, she reflected, was remarkable, given the typical place of women in the world. She had mentioned it to Jack, during an evening’s complicated cartographic exercise involving plotting a course around Africa’s cape.
“They aren’t from our world, are they, at least not from yours; for some African tribes, though not all, women hold more power than men-the power to bring life itself. Asian seas have seen female pirates for centuries, more savage than the male version in some cases. Before the Roman church took pains to destroy them, there were whole religions, cultures, based on goddesses, feminine strengths and mysticism. Besides, pirates are by necessity of a pragmatic nature. I’m their captain, and not one who believes in the lash-they’re loyal to me and to the Pearl; they see what you are to me, and thus extend their loyalty to you.”
Somewhat miffed at his apparent dismissal of the weight her own strengths carried in the crew’s estimation, she decided to push him on that. Slyly, using the excuse of pressing the question to press closer to the warmth of his shoulder, she asked, “And what, exactly, am I to you, Jack?”
He had turned to her then with disconcerting sobriety, his eyes challenging, and answered “Everything, love, and nothing I can call mine.” This time, he was the one to walk away.
~
They dropped anchor before sunset that night, needing full daylight to avoid running afoul of the treacherous coral reefs surrounding La Digue. Cotton prepared the usual evening meal of boiled fish, adding a fruit stew made from the last of the stores from the Maldives and a healthy dose of cinnamon he found among the spices pilfered from the English carrier. Jack had eaten on deck with Elizabeth and the crew, all of them watching the sun’s display of magenta and fire as it sank into the sea. Jack had regaled them with Greek legend and Egyptian theology on the origins of the sun and stars, cloaking what she knew to be scholarly knowledge in his usual Falstaffian performance.
She knew this was part of his cunning, his shield, but also knew that no small part of his outward persona was based on his sheer joy and delight in the eccentricities and vagaries of the world he lived in, the path he chose. This was a facet of him that she loved. She loved him. The ease with which that thought crossed her mind startled her. In all her careful maneuverings and questioning, all of her history with him, where had that begun? Lust and admiration had been instantaneous, she could now admit, that day on Port Royal’s dock when he had saved her, manhandled her as a means to his own salvation. But love, how had that built on a foundation of confused loyalties, constant danger, even mutual treachery? Being partner to a man like Captain Jack Sparrow would mean no end to their figurative swordplay, but she found she thrilled to the thought, accepted it, found it necessary as air.
As the sky darkened and the first stars appeared, Jack had nodded towards the foredeck. “Come on then; something I’ve neglected in our lessons, and this is a good night for it-clear skies, all the glories easily visible.”
“Glories?” Elizabeth followed, curious. Hesitant, as well, as this was her first opportunity of the day to be alone with him. Having focused all her energies for weeks on the intricacies of verbal dancing with him, on reaching a new understanding of herself, and on making a life altering decision, she realized she had neglected to consider how to approach disclosing her choice. Neglected, also, to consider the subsequent consequences of such a discussion. Given Jack’s propensity for expediency, those consequences were sure to be swift in coming. She took a deep breath, and followed him forward.
He made a brief stop in his cabin, emerging with his spyglass in one hand and a dusty bottle of unfamiliar shape in the other. Gibbs was at the wheel, but the rest of the crew had retired early below decks in anticipation of making an early start to the day ashore. Jack led the way, halting at the railing and waving both bottle and telescope at the night sky. “Constellations!” this with a grand, proprietary sweep. “Every competent navigator must have a firm understanding of the star’s positions; can’t think how I’ve been so remiss in your instruction.” The Milky Way soared over their heads, a brilliant swathe of light, the moon a perfect glowing crescent. Jack opened the bottle, drank deep, and passed it to her. It contained a rather fine French brandy that burned foreign sunlight down her throat and the taste of a long-ago afternoon onto her tongue. He handed her the spyglass and began pointing out various groupings, tracing the outlines with his elegant artist’s fingers, providing names and his own eccentric versions of their stories and origins.
“Orion, the largest; the hunter, with a bow and sword; the dingles between his legs are supposed to be his scabbard, though I’ve always been inclined to think of him as otherwise generously endowed; Draco, the dragon, breather of fire and lightning on a stormy night at sea; below it is Hercules, the hero and an outcast of the gods, born on the wrong side of the blanket, as it were; to his left, Lyra, see, the three strings; and your own symbol, love, Cygnus, the Swan, just there, her wings forever outspread in flight, as is fitting.” He turned and smiled at her, sculpted features limned in silver-blue moonlight, dark eyes and full mouth teasing. “Below and to her left, that’s Andromeda; she was a princess of Ethiopia, doomed to be a chained sacrifice for a sea beast because her mother’s pride offended the gods. The mother is seated above, Cassiopeia, the vain bitch herself. And there, to the left, Perseus, the winged warrior; he swept down and rescued Andromeda by slaying the monster, although the silly chit was too coy to speak up and tell him what was coming; left him to his own devices and deductions.” This time his grin flared with a demand and a challenge, and he closed the distance between them until the railing was hard at her back and his lean body pressed against her own. A whisper, soft as the night air across her lips. “Tell me, Lizzie darling, tell me now, speak up; you’ve had the feel all day of a woman who finally knows her mind.”
And here it was, the culmination of the dance, the last act of a play begun in another lifetime, on another sea. Trust Jack to see through her so effortlessly. Words, usually so quick to serve her whim, words had left her, fleeing before her tongue could capture them, leaving her frustrated and mute as the hapless bound princess reclining in the night tapestry of stars. His eyes searching hers, his hands now tracing the outline of her face, her throat, he offered no rescue, only further distraction. “Stop, Jack, stop now.”
He froze, stepped back, his features hard, and the look in his pain darkened eyes broke the chains holding her capacity for speech; she reached out for him then. “No, Jack, yes, I mean yes, yes to your offer, yes to love, to freedom, shackles, to everything. I know my heading. I want to stay with you, be with you, now. Now, Jack.”
Whatever chains had maintained his own uncharacteristic restraint during their days of cautious circling broke with the speed and finality she had expected of him. Their retreat to his cabin was something she could remember afterwards only in flashes of sensation and starlight. Deep kisses broken only by their need to make further progress, the feel of his skin as she slid a hand beneath his shirt, sharp pain she ignored as her back at last collided with the door handles. His mouth was molten honey, tasting of an alien sea, his tongue a wondrous revelation. Their final stumbling fall to his bed, the welcome weight of his body covering hers, her surprising discovery that the hair beneath his rough, ornamented braids, against his neck, across her face, between her fingers, had the feel of sun-warmed silk. Somehow his complicated layers of clothing, leather, and buckles found their way to the floor; she remembered laughing, gasping at her first uninhibited exploration of a man’s body, his body, and the mysteries it promised.
He rose above her, pulled her into his arms, breathing endearments and obscenities as he made her own clothes slip miraculously away. “Lizbeth, god, want you, love you, want to take you apart, make you come undone, come for me, cry for want of me.” His hands trailed fire over her skin, called forth fire from within. He shifted her head from his shoulder, held her body arched against him, lowered his lips to her breast as he stroked inside her. The wet heat of his mouth, the velvet of his tongue, combined to release an arrow of rapture that shot to the ecstasy his fingers were creating between her thighs, and she shattered, cried out for him as he’d promised, slipping into the depths of an uncharted sea. His voice again took up the narrative of her fall, the words lost, leaving a sound like caressing rain in their wake.
She felt him at her entrance before she could surface, felt the shock of their first contact skin to skin, reached and circled with questing fingers, touched hard desire sheathed in satin that slipped back beneath her touch. Felt the play of muscles across his scarred back shaking with the effort at control, and then he was inside her before she could draw breath. A brilliant pain flared, died to embers, rekindled, building to a pleasure different from what he had given her before, deeper and more intimate. He began to move, his voice unceasing and soft at her ear, telling her of the wonders of her body and of what it did to him to be in her, to be lost in her, to be hers. She came undone as he’d promised, fell apart, came together again around him, her body clenching his of its own accord, pulling him in like the tide. He drove himself into her, body tightening under her hands, and at the last withdrew, moaning his loss and completion, spending heat across her belly.
Thought coalesced slowly, when her body could spare energy from the retrieval of her physical senses. It had been more, much more, than she had dreamed it would be, an intensity of body and spirit, his and hers together, that created something savage and fierce and new. Would it have been like this with any other man, if fate had not brought her to Jack? She already believed that this was impossible, and a question she never wanted answered. This knowledge filled her with piercing joy and fear combined, feelings she did not yet know how to share with him. She needed new words, a new language, a new courage to do that.
They lay tangled in linen and each other, panting until breath returned. He moved to her side, gathered her in his arms, kissed her slow and sweet, his narrative for the moment stilled. “Jack, what you did, when you…finished,” she asked when speech was possible, trailing her fingers through the still warm liquid he’d left on her skin, “will that keep me from getting with child?” So many questions still, so much between them as yet unsaid.
“Aye, that’s the hope, at least; but dearest, there are dozens of other ways to take our pleasure without that worry. My plan is to instruct you in every one, thoroughly, slowly, with frequent reviews and evaluations of competence, for the rest of my days.” He raised her hand to his wicked mouth, drew each finger inside its liquid heat, tonguing them clean with a cat’s lazy insolence.
Smiling, she raised the hand he did not hold captive to his face; the cabin’s only light came from the moon shining through the windows behind his bed, their bed, but what she could see of his features took her breath once more. No man had the right to look as he did at that moment, so wildly beautiful, radiating satisfaction and a sensuality that threatened to drown her.
“Are you all right, love? Any pain?” His voice and the hand that caressed her face in return were gentle, but she could see the passion building again in his eyes, midnight black in the scarce light, causing her body to thrill and resonate in response.
“No, no pain; I believe I may be ready for another lesson in cartography, Captain; further instruction in…charting. What happens, for instance, when my hand ventures, here, at just this speed?” She slipped her fingers between his legs, cupping this new and fascinating territory. His answer, in the form of tutorial guidance offered through clenched teeth, and later reciprocal mapping of her own body, saw them well into the night. They slept at last, rocked by the Pearl in the rhythm of her endless lovemaking with the sea.