[POTC fic series] - SAILING IN SAMSARA, C.3 - The Paths of Krishna and Kali - 1/4 - rated NC-17

Mar 18, 2007 19:28


Title: “The Paths of Krishna and Kali”
Series: Sailing in Samsara (chapter three)
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Spoilers: Post (my hypothetical) AWE
Pairing: Jack/Elizabeth, Saraswati (OC)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 11,193
Disclaimer: I don't own POTC or any of the people in it. They belong to Disney. Would that I was so rich.
Summary: This is Chapter Three of a series that will address Jack’s backstory and the role of family in his life. Lizzie learns more about Jack, more about Sara, and more about the art of carrying weapons when wearing a dress.

Many thanks to
djarum99for providing excellent beta/concrit, for holding my hand while I was struggling to make this monster work, and for going far beyond the normal lengths of friendship to help me get this posted after my computer crashed.  *mouwah* 
For being such a kind, amazing friend, and for taking tons of your time to actually post these for me:  this work is dedicated to her. Readers in the POTC world, if you want to check out the best work from the nicest writer out there, read her awesome work!

Sailing in Samsara: The Paths of Krishna and Kali

The wind brushed through in languorous gasps, the scuttle and crunch of night-bugs beneath her slippers turning her stomach. Elizabeth swallowed another surge of bile and patted her corseted belly. Her eyes traced the insect’s slick trail of death across the alley, from her former post to the corner she huddled in, near the docks. Bombay runners, their clamshell wings folded and obsidian in the moonlight, made mad dashes for the Pearl. Bloody vermin, she thought, her skin crawling beneath imaginary feet. Come on, Jack. Mother of Christ, where in the blazes are you?

She’d been waiting for what seemed like hours. The plan had been straightforward enough. She would wait here, making sure none of the brothel’s thugs tried to sneak aboard the Pearl, and Jack and Gibbs would return with Sara after negotiating her fee. Of course, they hadn’t mentioned that the blasted alley would be crawling with vermin, and as time crept on, the insects began to fray at her nerves. Even as a girl in Port Royal she had felt sick at the sight of them, their squat black bodies swollen and monstrous in the tropical heat. Bugs like no street urchin in England could imagine, swooping into her bedroom through the open shutters, scurrying beneath her pillows and up the bedposts. She had sworn, in those more innocent times that they had perched and hissed.

Years of living on a ship had taught her how to cohabitate with them without the usual shrieking terror, a hard-earned lesson after creating a rather pathetic scene one evening after she and Jack had retired to their cabin. It had been late, the sky tinted navy for several hours past. She’d curled beside him in the bed, calm and drifting towards sleep until she’d felt a tiny tickle against her cheek, like an errant strand of hair. Brushing at her face, she’d screamed bloody murder when she saw a fat, black cockroach knocked onto the pillow by her hand. Diving clumsily off the bed, she’d hit the floor with a crack and rolled, jumping to her bare feet and running smack-flat into the screen. Jack, naked as the day he was born, had started and tumbled out of bed, groping blindly for his sword. She had shrieked for help until her voice turned jagged and raw. Spinning about with his sword drawn, and seeing no intruder, he’d asked her what the bloody hell the problem was, and she’d merely screamed and pointed to the roach darting below the sheets. By that time, Gibbs and Pintel had burst through the door, weapons ready. Before she could explain - or think to thank God that she had worn Jack’s shirt because of the chilly night - the horrible beast had dashed madly towards her feet, and in her panic to run from the monster, she had tipped over a lantern and nearly set the cabin to flame.

Hadn’t gone over well, that little debacle. After snuffing the fire with several curses and his coat, Jack had sat back on his haunches, squashed the bug with his palm, and laughed until he was teary eyed. It had taken a ridiculously long time to live that embarrassment down, and it had taken even longer to shed the nickname Bombay Lizzie. Since then she had bitten back her nausea and crushed many a six-legged terror with her booted feet, had slept in her boots for nearly a month, in point of fact. Yet the crackle of their shells and the ooze of their gooey remains still left her queasy.

And now, without the reassuring column of leather swaddling her feet and calves, she felt exposed and jittery. Damn it, Jack, what is taking so long? Envisioning Gibbs, she couldn’t help but wonder if they were at a bar somewhere, throwing back toddies, or if Jack wasn’t steering him clear of every common whore between the docks and the courtesan’s mansion. Probably got bloody sidetracked. Her arches felt naked and exposed to the air. She imagined one of those black-armored terrors slipping inside the gap between shoe and foot, and she cringed. She hated dainty, toe-pinching, buckle-front shoes. Hated the kitten heels and the blasted satin-slick soles. And more than anything, she despised standing in a musty, dank, humid alley swarming with jet-backed vermin while the illustrious Captain Sparrow dallied in some whorehouse. No need to dwell on the omnipresent hell of wearing a corset in the tropics. No point in that at all.

It had been Jack’s smirk-mouthed epiphany that Elizabeth should dress as a lady. “For authenticity and distraction’s sake,” he’d said, gold-toothed and imp-eyed. The dagger jammed between her breasts was beginning the chafe her, and every time she slouched slightly, the point of the scabbard would jut out, tenting her torso like a lad’s breeches. Adding to the comedy of her stance was the rather irksome cutlass Jack had bound to her thigh with several scraps of linen. Inaccessible and ludicrous, the weapon dug into her leg, knocked against her knee every time she exhaled, and - most frustrating of all - forced her to lumber like a lame cow whenever she walked. Still, all of those inconveniences she could weather. It was the blasted corset and the damn-blasted shoes that were urging her blood to boil. Remembering how Jack had laced her bodice with unabashed glee, she kicked at the ground and decided to make for the ship. Guard duty be damned.

Plodding around the corner, she ducked into the shadows when several armed, oddly foppish natives came into view, approaching the Pearl. Cursing dresses in general and Jack in particular, she hiked up her heavy skirts and fished for her cutlass clumsily. Just as she grabbed the hilt and gave it a good tug, her dagger tore through her bodice, soaring projectile-like into the open air. She stumbled back, mortified, and her cutlass caught in her skirts. Yanking on the blade, she fell backwards, ripping her dress nearly to her hips in the process. The guards turned in tandem, eyed her strangely, and burst into fits of laughter and gibberish.

It was then that she heard him.

“I say, luv, it’s a mighty fine job you’re doing, providing stealthy security and all.” She spun to see Jack standing above her, literally beaming in his best brocade coat.

“And an even finer job you’re doing of sneaking your sister out, I see. Besides, it was your brilliant idea to put me out here in this - this dress, after all.”

“Now, now, Lizzie. Don’t get your lovely feathers all ruffled. You’re already so fetching as you are. No love, we had a slight change of plan is all. Modification is more the word.”

“Right.” She took the hand he extended, lace cuffs covering his rings, and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Brushing off her tattered gown with several brusque strokes, she straightened to show off her perfect, lady-like posture, and she rested her hand at a crisp, elegant angle on Jack’s proffered arm. “Well, Captain Sparrow, what exactly is the plan now?”

“Sara will be here shortly, luv. No worries there.”

“I thought you said -” She stopped short as four stout men carrying a strange, ornate sort of sedan chair rounded the corner. Less of a chair than a canopied bed on poles, the whole structure was covered in ornate carvings and iridescent, inlaid tiles. Heavy velvet drapes hung from the roof of the contraption. They swayed rhythmically with the slow plod of the servants supporting the platform. Behind them trailed several other men carrying lanterns on gracefully curved poles, the iron swan-necks bowed by the weight of metal and wick and red glass. They progressed slowly, trailing behind the sedan chair in puddles of smoldering, scarlet light. Turning her attention back to Jack, he smiled and tilted his head towards the procession.

“And that, my dearest Doom, would be me sister in her palkhi,” at her quizzical expression, he explained, “palanquin, luv. You know - a litter, a sedan chair, a -”

“Got it, Jack.” She tapped her head with her free hand.

“Yes, well, as I was saying, there goes dear ol’ sis and her rather nefarious entourage. Look at that bloke with the mustache, all beady-eyed and -”

“Why, he looks a little like you, Jack.” Unable to suppress her smile, she covered her mouth and coughed.

“Sticks and stones, luv.”

“So you’ve said.” She tripped over her hem, Jack’s arm reaching to steady her.

“Easy, Bess. ‘Tis not a race, although I would like to make the deck before those fellows - don’t trust them any more than a mongoose in a pit of cobras.” At her arched eyebrow, he shrugged and quickened their pace.

“Why all the pomp and show if she’s been released from the brothel?”

“Hasn’t been released, love. Raesa didn’t take to the idea of losing her best asset, so I took the elephant by its trunk, as they say, and suggested that ‘Lakshmi’ there should come to the ship and give a little show for the crew. Thought my sister was going to snap me eyes out me head, but the deal was done, a pretty price was paid, and now all we’ve left is a few more gestures such as this and then - poof - I’ll have the old bat eating out of the palm of my hand. Then Gibbs and I will,” he paused as she threw him an annoyed glance, and he amended his statement. “What I meant to say - of course - was that you and Gibbs and I will just sweep in, kidnap the lass, and be on our way to Cochin in no time at all.”

“Uh huh.”

“What? It’s a perfectly sound plan.”

“Oh yes, of course it is. And I’m assuming you told them you were her brother?”

“Now why would I do such a thing as that?”

“Why, indeed.”

“Well, I simply explained - in me dashing and devilish way, of course - that I was a humble Pirate Lord with a bored and female-deprived crew - not counting you, of course, darling - and that I had ample coin to offer for a night’s worth of distraction for the lads.”

“And I fit into this picture how?”

"Ah, yes. Forgot that bit. But say, lovely night, isn’t it Lizzie?”

“Jack.” She stopped and stared, arms akimbo.

Sighing, he threw up his hands and fixed her with his most innocent, wounded look. “I told them you were my mute sister.”

“Brilliant. You know, if I didn’t know better, Jack, I’d think you were trying to make some sort of point.”

“Me? I couldn’t imagine the world without your musical voice, Bess. It’s just that necessity dictates that you don’t speak in these little charades. And I wouldn’t worry about keeping quiet - difficult as it is for you, being so spirited and all - because those eunuchs aren’t likely to make much comment either way.” They resumed walking, their pace brisk.

“Eunuchs?”

“Yes, ‘fraid so love. Just look at the way they bloody walk - terribly dainty, the poor bastards.” His own swagger became more pronounced, and she hid her grin behind her hand, cupping her mouth and once again pretending to cough.

They had nearly reached the ship. Its proud height towered dizzying and dark above them. Casting a furtive glance at the distressed state of her garments, her legs and ribs exposed obscenely beneath the tears in the cloth, she stopped once again and faced Jack.

“I look foolish, you know.” She felt small, suddenly, like a lonely little girl walking the plank in her nightdress.

“I beg to differ, Bess., Why, you look positively fearsome and delicious.” To demonstrate her apparently overwhelming tastiness, he drew her to him, and glancing to make sure the Pearl sheltered them from the guard’s view, bent his mouth to the crook of her neck to give her a good nibble, as much for show, she imagined, as for his palate’s sake.

Batting his head away, she was shocked to feel her cheeks pinked from the display. Something about a bloody dress, she thought. Smiling she reclaimed his arm, continuing towards the Pearl. They made the ship well before Saraswati and her slow-moving party, the familiar scent of plank and hull immediately comforting. Refusing Jack’s offer of assistance, Elizabeth kicked off her slippers and climbed up the steep gangway with practiced grace. Gibbs met her topside, extending a hand to pull her firmly to the deck. At his befuddled look, she merely shrugged, sprinting to Jack’s cabin and turning to shout over her shoulder, “You really don’t want to know,” before ducking behind the door.

She emerged several minutes later in her usual masculine attire, made formal by the brocade frock coat she had donned for the occasion, her hair unpinned and curling in windblown ringlets. The crew, being used to her unorthodox style of dress, took little note of her, and she smiled, feeling once again womanly and competent.

The Indian party was boarding the ship, and Sara’s head bobbed into view. A short, thin veil was pinned on either side of her face, covering her eyes and nose and most of her mouth. Elizabeth shook her head, wondering how she could see anything at all. Jack helped his sister to the deck with some difficulty, the long cloak she wore catching beneath her feet. Lizzie sprinted forward to help wrangle the woman to the deck, the guards casting startled glances in her direction. A stray thought flickered to life: she hoped her sword caught the lamplight, hoped the figure she cut served to erase her former clumsiness.

Sara straightened, feet firmly on deck, and spoke in low tones to her brother in a dialect that even the guards seemed unable to decipher. Elizabeth remembered something Jack had said about the language changing from region to region and she shuffled a bit closer to try and make out the rhythm of their words.

Obviously, Sara could see somewhat marginally through her veil, because Jack pointed towards his cabin and she nodded, heading off in the general direction of his quarters. Bending to Elizabeth’s ear, he whispered, “Need you to follow her, Bess. She’s going to need some assistance, I imagine. I’ll keep the men occupied for a time.” Smiling curtly in her imposed muteness, she turned and made her way to the cabin, her hand grazing the hilt of her cutlass as she sidled past the guards. Before entering the cabin, she turned to see Gibbs and Cotton collecting instruments from the musicians shuffling aboard.

She rapped the door with a light fist and slipped inside to find Sara, veil unpinned, poised in front of Jack’s charts. She noted that the woman’s henna-red finger brushed across several points on the map. Clearing her throat, Elizabeth edged towards her, and Sara removed her hand from the desk, pretending to be generally interested in the artifacts strewn across the room.

“Fascinating, isn’t it? I do so love to pour over those charts myself. There’s something to be said for running one’s hands across the lay of the world. Did you find what you were looking for, then?”

“Looking? Na-na, just inspecting my brother’s housings. Too much must and muck in here, isn’t it?” Sara swiped a slender finger across the table, upsetting the thin layer of dust. Tiny flecks twirled greyly in the air. “Who is keep-keeping these rooms for him, hmm?”

“We both keep them, actually.”

“Ah.”

“Jack said you were in need of my assistance.”

“Vaah, vaah - I’m sure Brother-Dear wants you keep-keeping your sharp eye on me, ji? But you’re here, ah, and I could use some little helpings. Could you bring me a watch-glass, beta?”

“Oh. Of course.” Biting her lip, Elizabeth unleashed her frustration on Jack’s chest of clothing, rifling through threadbare shirts and sashes until she found a large mirror at the bottom. Handing it to Sara, she watched as the woman sat at the table, drew the tip of her thumb into her mouth, and wiped the bottoms of her eyelids with a wet finger. The kohl that had feathered beneath washed into a proper line. Sara stood, straightened her cloak, and jerked her head towards the door.

“Will you be so kind, darling, as to inform Brother-Ji that he should fetch me a blanket or sheeting - something nice-nice, kya? We’ll need this for my exiting.”

Elizabeth left Sara to primp in the cabin and delivered the message to Jack through clenched teeth. He settled a soothing hand on her shoulder, bending his head towards her, “You know, my mute darlin’, you shouldn’t let her get you so riled. She’s all spice but very little fire. Nothin’ like you, Doom. I’ll take her the blanket; the musicians are nearly tuned up, and the crew is settling, thanks to an extra dollop of rum. You just sit down and enjoy the show, aye?”

“Aye.”

“We have an accord then?’

“Yes, yes, an accord.”

“That’s my vicious girl.” Planting a chaste kiss on the crown of her head and patting her shoulder in brotherly dismissal, he swiveled and sauntered towards his quarters, humming a bawdy tune all the way.

She plopped onto a coil of rope beside Gibbs and huffed loudly. Removing the flask of rum tucked in the band of her breeches, she took a healthy swig. Coughing from the sugary, liquid burn, she slouched elbow-to-knee and turned to her portly companion.

“And what do you think of all of this pompous nonsense, Mr. Gibbs?”

“I think old Jack’s got a plan in that stubborn head of his, that’s for sure.”

“Awful bad luck to have a sister onboard, isn’t it?”

“So I’ve heard it said, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth, Gibbs. Just plain Elizabeth. And what do you think of the sister in question?”

Furrowing a grizzled brow and taking a large swallow of his own spirits, he shrugged and leaned back a bit, cracking his knuckles. “Can’t say I’ve had much of a chance to form an opinion, but if she’s really Jack’s sister, I know one thing.”

“And what’s that, Mr. Gibbs?”

“She’ll be a handful, that’s sure enough.”

“Aye, Gibbs. Aye, indeed.” Taking another sip of rum, she turned her head skywards, making a mental note of the lay of the stars. Rum-warm, her vision softened and the firmament above seeming a smudged sort of kohl. She conjured several analogies, finally deciding that she preferred to imagine the night sky was a very sturdy velvet sheet, swaddling the world from the crisping sun; the stars were tiny pin-punched holes revealing daylight. Flexing her fingers, she imagined petting that downy fuzz.

“You feelin’ alright Miss - I mean, Elizabeth?”

potc, sailing in samsara, fic

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