Fic: Fiat Lux, C.3
Title: Fiat Lux
Chapter 3: Horizons
Author: djarum99
Rating: PG13-R, this chapter
Pairing: Jack/Elizabeth, Will/Elizabeth
Disclaimer: owned by the mouse in the concrete jungle, but they live in our hearts
Notes: Post AWE, Elizabeth attempts to come to terms with past and future choices.
A/N: Many thanks to erinya for posting a link to the FAQ for lj-cuts; a longer chapter as promised to bleumidget, and some "schmoopy" for sage_laurel :)
It was Ragetti who provided further explanation of the phenomenon she had witnessed with Jack that night. Some of the crew had stumbled on deck to watch the event, ending her chances of any further cartographic instruction, and kisses, from Jack. The emaciated one-eyed pirate had offered the story from his strange collection of knowledge and philosophical deliberations which never ceased to bemuse Elizabeth.
“Once when I was a lad, had already turned a pirate by then, we came upon a British merchant ship in the North Atlantic, ye see. 'Twas at night, pitch black with no moon, and the stars began fallin’ like rain just as we boarded ‘er. One of the people we, eh, came upon as it were, told us it was sure to be a sign of the doom that would befall us. He told the story of St. Lawrence, one of them martyrs who died for the faith; he were tortured and killed in ancient Rome on the tenth day of August. Funny how they be so precise about dates and all, these churchly folk. ‘Tis August now, I reckon, mid-month. Anyway, the story says that every year on the day of his death, the stars fall down like burnin’ tears-the tears of St. Lawrence. Oh, and also I heard - from another gent of my, um, acquaintance who called hisself an as-tro-no-mer, that what they really be called by them what studies such things, as-tro-no-mers, that is, is meteors,” finishing with a firm nod of his head, slightly out of breath.
“I like the tears of St. Lawrence better,” sighed Elizabeth, feeling oddly at peace. The ache had left her body and spirit for the first time in days. She did not have the energy to question this, coming in the wake of Jack’s offer. She did note, with some satisfaction, that the captain had certainly given her ample time to make a choice. The Pearl was currently weeks away from the point where Jack would have to ask her for a heading. She wondered if he was allowing time for his own peculiar brand of persuasion. She relaxed, seated with her back against the deck railing, the crew unusually quiet, sipping from a shared bottle and engrossed in the sky’s display. Thoughts regarding what Jack's offer meant and where it could take her floated through her mind, resisting hold or close scrutiny.
What would it mean, to be a pirate’s bride? Or, not a bride, not to Jack; to him, and now by her own measure, she too was a pirate. Although, based on her new and costly worldly wisdom, piracy existed in many walks of life, not just on the seas. What kind of life could they have? Their recent experiences had taught harsh lessons about the probable fate of those opposing law, order, and the commerce of those that now ruled the trade routes. Were there other seas for them, places yet open and free that would tempt a man like Jack? Would he be faithful, stay fierce for her, love her as she would demand to be loved?
Elizabeth’s eyes drifted shut, then opened to meet Jack’s, standing with Gibbs beside him . His gaze was watchful, assessing, but he allowed her a brief smile that reached his eyes. He lifted the bottle in his hand, drank, and raised it in a brief salute. Gibbs took note, flashing a wink when Jack turned back to the wheel. Long after, she would remember the paradoxical peace of that moment, Ragetti’s story, and Jack’s characteristically effortless appropriation of a saint’s tears for use as his own dramatic punctuation. This was the night she would always remember as the night she admitted - to herself alone - that she might well be falling in love with Captain Jack Sparrow.
G
The next morning again brought heat, calm seas, and a favorable westward wind. The Pearl was making steady progress across the Indian Ocean, towards the African coast and the long circumnavigation required to enter the Atlantic. They had last made port in the Maldives, and would next reach the Seychelles, a week or more away, stopping to take on water and supplies. Word among the crew had reached Elizabeth; Jack was now on the hunt, pressured by the men and by an impending shortage of rum. His compass, it seemed, was working again.
Elizabeth whiled away an hour in the rigging pondering what, exactly, that meant for the state of things between them. Was it working because the needle was free to point to what he wanted, now that he might believe he had that which he had previously desired? Should she be angry at this, given that she had yet to make her choice, and certainly had not stated said choice to Jack? The choice itself remained elusive, in spite of her realization of the direction her heart had chosen. She was not a woman accustomed in her previous life to stepping off into the unknown. Pirate she was, and her actions in the orbit of Captain Jack Sparrow had proven her ability to draw blade and make Occam’s choice, however ruthless. She was not yet ready to be proud of that, or sure enough of her wisdom to firmly opt for what promised to be a lifetime of such decisions at Jack’s side.
Jack emerged from his cabin much earlier than had lately been his habit. He moved in an indirect, weaving line towards Elizabeth, stopping to peruse the crew’s work and growl orders regarding his exacting standards for the care of his ship. Upon reaching her, he took up a stance leaning against the railing, giving her a leisurely head to toe appraisal.
“Tis time you began some proper instruction in the art of sailin’, love; I have the necessary instruments and adjuncts in my cabin, therefore schooling will commence there forthwith,” this offered with a lazy wave and a mocking approximation of a gentleman’s bow.
“Your cabin? And just what might this ‘instruction’ entail?” she asked suspiciously.
“Cartography, navigation, geometry-all above board and proper, and this, my dear, is on captain’s orders, not his request.”
There was enough of sober intent in Jack’s eyes, and enough of the leer she discovered she had missed over the last weeks, that Elizabeth followed him without further comment. Once in the cool and cluttered space that was his domain, Jack began to arrange various objects and instruments on the chart table. Elizabeth allowed her gaze to wander over those of his possessions that were visible. Candles on every surface, jars containing unknown substances, numerous large and small chests, the razor talon of a large bird of prey, what looked to be a large collection of maps rolled and stored in baskets and urns, and books; dozens of them, some in French, Spanish, Latin, and what appeared to be Greek although her own education had not extended to that ancient language. She tucked this last rather surprising discovery into her cache of newfound insight into his character and murky history. Jack, it seemed, was an educated man.
“Take a seat. We begin lesson one in cartography.” Elizabeth took the chair beside him, and Jack leaned closer, taking up what she recognized as a compass of the sort used in map-making. “What do you know of the principles of geometry, love?” he asked.
“I was well tutored in Port Royal, Jack; however, it was difficult to influence my tutor to take me much further than basic sums, as he held firm beliefs about what was appropriate for a girl of my station to know,” she admitted.
“And you were unable to persuade him? I find that hard to believe, love,” he said with what appeared to be the utmost sincerity.
The rest of the afternoon was spent with their heads together over parchment. Elizabeth found herself becoming engrossed in his tutelage, while not a little distracted by the chance to watch his long, elegant fingers holding quill, brush, and compass to create finely detailed examples of course charting. The warmth of Jack’s body, the occasional brush across her bare forearm of braids and beads brought to sharp focus the lust she had fought since…when? When did that begin, precisely? She had desperately yearned to join Will in their lost marriage bed, and had been able to appreciate Norrington’s finely masculine features in spite of never seriously considering him as a suitor. However, in spite of her conflicted feelings about him, Jack had a physical presence and sensual pull unlike any man she had known
When Jack finally corked the ink bottle and stated his intention of taking over the helm, she asked him why he had chosen her as apprentice to what was commonly a captain’s skill. He paused, his body stilled in a way that caused a stir of unease in her own, and met her eyes with something in his that she did not recognize. “Someone needs to know it, someone must be able to plot a course, lead the crew.”
“Lead the crew? What are you speaking of, Jack? You’re the Pearl’s captain, why teach me?”
“I have, shall we say, a long history of living moment to moment, dearest; it hasn’t always had what one could call the optimum result. Let’s just say for once in me cursed life I’m thinking ahead, looking to the next longitude, so to speak.”
“Jack, you promised to leave the riddle,” she said as her sense of unease grew.
“I suppose death gives a man a new perspective, love, a tendency to hedge one’s bets a trifle more thoroughly,” softening his words with a gentle cupping of her cheek.
“What do you know, Jack? What is it you…see?”
“Everything, and nothing at all Lizzie, save what is right in front of me; I simply want you to be well prepared for the seas ahead, equal to any man and any event, whatever sea you choose,” this with a grin that flashed gold, then he was gone.
Elizabeth retired early to her narrow cot that night. She had every intention of using the relative peace of her tiny cabin to reflect on her newly acquired knowledge of the conundrum that was Captain Jack Sparrow, and his somewhat disquieting motives for her new course of instruction. Instead, she found her mind (and body) returning with determination to the memory of that third kiss before the Pearl’s wheel; to her desire for him that now resonated with something more, something deeper, something dangerous yet strangely sure, combining into a new and puzzling whole. What she had felt for Will had been real, she never doubted that. It was love born of childhood friendship and shared history that she treasured still. What she now felt for Jack was born in a darker place, the place where her childhood had ended. She had killed him, and out of that sacrifice they had both been reborn.
Restless, and with sleep eluding her, Elizabeth allowed herself comfort from her own soft hands. They ghosted over her body with a sweet friction she had discovered on a long ago summer’s night, in the safety of an innocent's bed in the house of her father. When she brought herself to that familiar peak, sailed over, took flight, it was Jack’s name she whispered to the sea.
Her dreams that night, when they came, were not of Jack but of Will, her father, that final night at the edge of the world. She again watched her father’s eyes as the awareness of death reached them. Watched him smile at her with loving resignation, a silent blessing and farewell, and disappear into the eerie mist. She saw Will, his handsome, beloved faced turning to her as he stepped onto the deck of the Flying Dutchman. His gaze held resolution and a strange peace, as the sea change washed over him. Not the grotesque distortion created by Davy Jones’ bitterness, but a sea-dream transformation that limned his features in silver and mirrored his own true heart. Elizabeth knew in that moment that Will would be a captain of the afterlife who offered redemption, rest, to the sea’s weary captives. His choice to command the Dutchman was born of love rather than hate.
When she woke, it was with a sense that the piercing knife of grief had dulled, leaving in its place a tender healing ache. She could think of Will, her father, her former life, with both regret for what was lost and joy in what had been. She stepped on deck with a new resolve, quite sure of her heading. Elizabeth Swann the woman wanted some answers not framed in enigmas. She thought she might have some excellent ideas regarding how to begin deconstructing the mystery that was Captain Jack Sparrow.
http://djarum99.livejournal.com/1569.html#cutid1 C.4 - "Phoenix"