more isolationist slayer crap

Wed, 16 May 2007 22:04:02 GMT

I had to take advantage of the username purge that went down awhile ago. HAD TO!

So.... the new personal LJ is pyracies, and the writing archive is still voilesnoires. I'll add the usual suspects myself, anyone else that wants to follow is welcome to.

Sun, 08 Apr 2007 02:05:56 GMT

TITLE: Seven Deadly Sins (Pride_2)
PAIRING: Jack/Elizabeth
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: The second part of "Pride", Jack is here, as promised. There's also a bit of an interlude of random Elizabeth character analysis/introspection. Ummm, that's about it.

VI.

(superbia)

PRIDE

(2)

And the serpent said unto the woman, "Ye shall not surely die; for God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil." And when the woman saw that the tree was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat. Genesis 3:4-6

He greets her at the door, bottle in hand, and before she has a chance to utter a 'hello', his focus has shifted to the necklace sitting on her collarbone; a string of black pearls, with a gold clasp at the nape of her neck.

"Nice touch, darling, honestly." He smirks, and steps aside, with a flourish, for her to enter.

She can feel the blood rush to her cheeks, as she removes her coat and mutters, "They were my Mother's."

They both know this is only half truth.

She had come here with a purpose that she would not admit, even to herself; one hour after receiving a message on torn parchment, and why he had risked coming back to Port Royal, she couldn't imagine. Then again, Jack Sparrow was not known for his aversion to risk. The woman tending the desk gave her a knowing look as she asked which room he was in, surely it wasn't something she saw every day. The daughter of the former Governor, dressed in tattered clothes, nervously wringing her now-rough hands, inquiring as to the whereabouts of a pirate.

Then again, townspeople are bound to talk, and they'd all heard the stories. She'd become accustomed to the disapproving glares of the devout, and heard the tiny old women murmuring. Some days she was tempted to correct them, to shock them with all the details they'd missed, to say, "yes, actually, it was like that, and then some," in a tone that sounded, in her mind, like a clever sort of matter-of-fact sarcasm (it was a tone he would use), but her upbringing had a deeper hold than she'd like to admit.

She almost jumps out her skin when he closes the door, and is brought back to earth by the low chuckle that her reaction earns.

"Well, that's lovely, all my wishes have come true in this moment," she's only half listening, and he's shifting somewhere behind her, "see, I was thinking to m'self earlier, 'wouldn't it be marvelous to have a statue, shaped exactly like dear Elizabeth? Could stand her right there.'"

When she turns, he's pointing to the spot where she'd been standing; she realizes she's been frozen there, for at least a minute. He starts to say something, but he arches a brow, and then points to a seat in the corner.

"Sit, girl, sit." She does, he does the same, "I find that talking, also, sometimes helps in social situations."

"It's good to see you, Jack." Elizabeth breathes, finally; the calm before the inevitable storm of all their interactions.

"Of course it is! I'm, well, me, after all, and really, I think that should be enough for any bird. From bang-tails to high society ladies, like yourself."

Years chip away at mystery, and she knows now that he babbles when he's nervous. It's part comforting, part endearing, and all Jack; the last bit is what she's missed the most. She smiles, and he sees a little flicker of light behind eyes that'd looked alarmingly dead five minutes prior, "Are you going to keep prattling on about your finer points, or are you going to give this lady a drink?"

"Ah, but I could prattle on about m'finer points all night. The real question, luv, is how long've you got?"

~

She is the heroine of every tale she's ever read: Ophelia, Desdemona, Rapunzel, Anne Bonny, and Grace O'Malley; the greatest one of all, is her life. It's not a hard conclusion to come to, one need only peel away a layer or two, to see hubris laid bare like entrails. Blame it on station, on a doting Father; she was spoiled, quite used to getting whatever she wanted. Perhaps, the only reason she craved an illusive horizon, was that she could not reach it. Perhaps it was all the screaming of a spoiled rich child, who'd never known hunger, or cold; maybe she'd been so sheltered, so protected, that the root of it all was simple boredom, coupled with her penchant for romanticizing everything.

Delusions of grandeur, the remnants of class training that told her she was superior, and thus, too good to live a simple life, as a simple wife, like everyone else. Too much for this simple world, with it's trades, hard hours, mediocrity, and lack of imagination. It would be bitter irony, if the meaning of it all was indoctrination she hated.

The line between fantasy and reality had been so blurred, so eroded by stories, by kohl, and sand between her toes, that it was all nothing but a script, like the Shakespeare she used to read; if all the world's a stage, it's easy to put off consequence. It's all a part of the story, and both of her men are stepping stones to her own, personal, entirely selfish growth; there will come a time when neither of them have anything left to teach.

"Pirate."

~

His eyes are half closed when she takes the bottle from his hand, and settles again next to him. He writes his name on her back with the pad of his forefinger, and the band of silver is cold against her skin.

"Men've got two brains, Lizzie, m'dear," he slurs now, more than she's heard before, his voice low, and heavy, "M'not sure which I'm using, just now."

"Little of both, I should think." She moves against his hand, subtle enough for him to think he'd imagined it, "I suppose the real question is which one is winning?"

He grins, and presses a weary hand to his forehead, "Come closer, and I'll whisper it to you."

Wed, 04 Apr 2007 08:46:01 GMT

TITLE: Seven Deadly Sins (Pride)
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: A drabble-sized memory from Elizabeth's past. Ah, a bit about the nature of piracy in general, as well as the thematic sin. I really don't know exactly how to describe what I'm doing here, without giving it all away, but I'm rather proud of it, and being that I'm my own harshest critic, that's gotta mean something. This is only the first part, there'll be a second one, still part of "Pride", in which Jack'll make an appearance. One more sin to go. :]!

VI.

(superbia)

PRIDE

(1)

And the Lord God commanded the man, saying, "Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat, but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it; for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die." Genesis 2:16-17

Once, her Father took her to see a hanging. She could not have been more than eleven years old; it was just after the death of her Mother. He'd been determined then to save his daughter; the determination of a man who, for the inability to save his wife from fever, sought to protect what he had left. No one wants their child to grow up, and become a criminal. Without her Mother, she'd begun clinging to stories all the more fiercely, her fascination had only intensified, and Weatherby Swann was growing more concerned by the day; each day he heard her humming her song during lessons, during dinner; each day she asked him to take her to watch the ships.

"Piracy," he'd said, already regretting the lesson, "is little more than a child's tantrum, on a grander scale." Indeed, it was nothing more than the collective outcry of those who could not, or simply would not, accept their place in the world. She'd heard a puritan minister suggest that they were more infected by hubris, than drink. Pride being, he said, the original sin of man, the most basic, and common of all things God hates. What struck her most had not been the truth of the statement, but more, the implication that pirates were a single organism, and to think of them as human, as individual, was beyond reason; beyond what they, the common enemy of all mankind, of hard-working, law-abiding folk, deserved.

The man on the platform could not have been more than ten years her senior, and though the situation was clearly dire, when he caught her stare, and locked eyes from across the crowd, he'd given a little wink. The clergyman on hand asked if he was repentant.

"I should say so, m'lord," he shifted uncomfortably, seemingly unable to resist subtle attempts at loosing the cord binding his wrists, "for one thing, I would like to have done a fair bit more mischief," a dull roar of whispers broke through the crowd of onlookers, Elizabeth could not help but snicker; her Father shot her a disapproving look, "and, ah, looking back, I should have probably been a bit more determined to cut that wanker's throat," he nodded toward a man in uniform, standing just a few feet away; presumably the man who'd caught him, "and it's really rather disappointing that I'm standing here, on this sodding scaffold, and not you, sir."

This was her first lesson on class, the first time she'd noticed that the only people in the audience not grinning, not doubled in riotous laughter, were those men in wigs, and women in fine jewelry. Her Father, the uniformed man, the minister. Though it had taken her years, and experience, to properly understand this observation. She met the pirate's eyes again, and the executioner reached for the lever.

"This is what society does to pirates." The Governor said, "It's best you learn that now."

The platform fell, the laughter stopped, and for a moment she forgot to breathe.

She never did learn his name.

Thu, 29 Mar 2007 08:58:01 GMT

summary: Untitled drabble thingy that really doesn't need all that "title/pairing/rating" stuff goin' on. Sort of based off the trailer (only one scene, one fraction of a scene, actually); the quasi-existential implications of a flat world. Sort of angsty, sort of sensual, and, ah, there's an island flashback. J/E, obviously.

As a child, she would sit in her Father's study, two fingers tip-toeing across the globe under the window. She'd let it spin, and then, after a few seconds, stop it, and spend the rest of the day imagining the adventures she could have in the place under her finger. But that was lifetimes ago, and she had since seen world's end. It would have shocked her tutor, the little round red-faced man who was responsible for her lessons each day; he'd always said the earth was round.

It's funny how many questions remain unanswered in adulthood; how age almost seems to complicate the matter, rather than make it clearer. So far, the only thing Elizabeth had learned was that she knew nothing, not even a fraction of what she'd once been sure of.

The implications of a flat world are as vast and devastating as the waterfall at it's edge.

~

"It's something of a, ah, what's the bloody word," He squints against the firelight, and takes a swig to induce recollection, "metaphor, that's it. You know, symbolism."

Five minutes prior she'd been wondering how she ended up here, a breath away from new dresses, ceremonies, and uncomfortable proposals. Currently, though, she was mostly wondering how a single person could ingest so much rum and still retain consciousness, let alone the ability to discuss literary devices. A lesser man, she imagined, would be face-down and dry heaving.

"What is?"

He makes a face, almost annoyed at the fact that she had not been listening, but, remembering her inexperience, softens, "Perhaps, you should leave the drinking to ole' Jack for awhile, luv, give yourself time to catch up a bit. In any case, I--"

"--don't call me 'lu--"

"--was talking about the horizon, Ms. Swann."

Maybe it was his tone, the way his voice melted around the edges of the word. Covering the syllables in fire, and alcohol. She looked at him, finally, finding it difficult to think about anything but what his gaze felt like on her bare shoulder; finding it difficult to stay mad at him for more than the three seconds it takes him to give a wicked little half-grin. She shivers, barely moving closer, so slowly that she was sure he couldn't notice.

"Tell me." And for the space of two words, she is the child who memorized his stories, and recited them like prayers of salvation before bed.

He regards her carefully, and takes another drink, "S'a metaphor for freedom, so to speak. You can spend your whole life chasing it, and you'll never get there. It's always moving away, always just out of reach, and that sort of thing can get discouraging, see?"

"Obviously." Discouraging, she thinks, is not the half of it.

"But that's the trick, darling," He speaks now with renewed intensity, as though he almost understood that he was not having a conversation with the woman, but with the girl, "you only need realize that it doesn't matter."

"If only we all had your dedication to apathy." She says, nearly bitter, and nearly amused.

"If only you'd all take it upon yourselves to embrace any number of my better qualities, I think the world would be a marvelous, if not inebriated, place. But that is, decidedly, beside the point."

"And what is the point?"

"The point is, Lizzie, dear," she bristles, and he continues, "that so long as you're chasing, even if you never get to the sun, the world behind gets smaller, and smaller, til you've left the bastards, and their provincial day-to-day worries behind."

"You can't out run the world forever, Jack."

He shrugs, and looks back toward the ocean, "I'd imagine it's rather difficult to know, for sure, if you're too afraid to try."

It is the fourth time in as many hours she had felt compelled to slap him; only because he was right.

~

The implication of a flat world is a gaping hole of a horizon, and the only freedom found there, is death.

Fri, 23 Mar 2007 10:27:09 GMT

TITLE: Seven Deadly Sins (GREED)
PAIRING: Jack and Will interaction, mentions of both J/E and W/E
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Fifth part in the Seven Deadly Sins series, it looks like I may actually finish something. Anyhow, this is, ah, something that came to me because I listen to the Decemberists too much, and the story of the crane wife just worked out sort of perfectly. Though it's technically a stand-alone, parts of it can be attributed to this young! W/E drabble I wrote in a different time and username.

I-III & IV.

V.

(avarice)

GREED

"If, by chance, you find yourself taking some sort of issue with my presence, now would be an excellent time to say something."

It's the sort of long winded slur that identifies it's speaker before Will even looks up, eyes narrowed in the direction of fluttering fingers, and the unsteady shadow looming in his privacy. Jack only grins, it hovers somewhere between wicked, and nervous; gold flecks catch moonlight. The boy says nothing. The pirate takes that as an invitation to sit.

"I thought not."

He starts to push a bottle into William's hand, but stops, seeing that there is already one there. He nods, slowly; he is only half of a two part conversation, the other, is silent.

"I see you've beaten me to the punch, then." There's a pause, that is either for effect, or to allow the other to respond, "Well done."

It is the first time in awhile there've been words, and not swords.

Will takes a breath, and then a drink, and then another breath.

"You could never make her happy, you know." This isn't meant to be a question.

Jack chuckles slightly, trying, all in the space of seconds, to chose from a myriad of possible responses, "And you believe you can?" there was also, "actually, you'd be very surprised at just how happy I've made her, already," but, he did have some tact. "Shocked, even."

The boy says nothing.

The pirate takes that as a "no".

"There's a story, picked up from this drunk old bugger in Japan, about this poor bloke who finds a crane outside his doorstep, wounded by an arrow," he stops to take a swig, and then begins to tap his fingers against the wooden deck they were sitting on, "anyhow, he patches the thing up, and sends it on it's way, and then one night, a beautiful young woman appears at his door, and he falls madly in love with her."

Will rolls his eyes, entirely sure he doesn't like where this is going.

"They, in the grand and obvious tradition of these tales, get married, but the Japanese are not keen on the happily ever after notion, and so the story goes on." He stops tapping. "So, now our newlyweds must begin to think of the more, ah, practical aspects of married life, and this is made very difficult by our hero's status as 'poor bloke', so our heroine, we'll call her 'Smelizabeth'," if looks could kill, Jack'd be dead a second time, "what?" He raises is hands in faux surrender, "So, Smeli---his wife says that she can make a magic fishing net, catch more fish than anyone else, and bein' that our poverty stricken Romeo is a fisherman, that's a useful thing. The only two things she asks are: that he only expect her to do it the one time, and that he doesn't watch her as she spins."

"I'm failing to see your poin--"

"I'm gettin' to it, now settle down." He sighs heavily, and presses a hand to his forehead, trying to remember his place, "Right, so, reasonable enough request, yeah?" Will shrugs, "Well, one night, years down the line, once this man has already forced this task upon his wife time and time again, he can no longer bear his curiosity, and goes into the room where she is, and he sees the crane, his wife, plucking out her own feathers to weave them into the loom, and when she sees him, she flies away."

There's a beat.

The boy says nothing.

"Point is, William, some women, some people, aren't meant to be caught. They're like birds, or, bird people, or ... something," he makes a face, as though he actually saw the absurdity of his statement, ".... some people, you can't cage them, no matter how much you'd like to, and the only up I've got on you, lad, is that I know enough to know that." He breathes, finally, and shakes his head, "I know to meet her where she lives."

There's a beat.

"That, and I'm not a eunuch."

This would have been met with a punch, if Will had not been lost to thought since the previous comment. If a thousand memories had not been pouring through his conscious. Elizabeth aged thirteen, with the beaten up old pirate book, with pamphlets, and a pillow case wrapped about her head; with a worn out artist's rendition of the man who'd just told him this story. He would have punched him, if he had not, all at once, come to the sickening realization that, under it all, she had loved Jack first.

Even before she'd met him.

And he'd spent a lifetime chasing a bird.

But the pirate is oblivious to the epiphany, though not to the worried look that crosses his companion's face. He clears his throat, and raises his bottle, an attempt to lift spirits, and change subjects, "Take what you can."

And though Will knows his line, he replies, "Even if you've no right to."

He is not sure whether this is bitterness directed at Jack, or grim commentary on himself.

Fri, 16 Mar 2007 20:57:27 GMT

TITLE: Seven Deadly Sins
PAIRING: Jack/Elizabeth
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: The 4th part in my "Seven Deadly Sins" series. 3 more to go. The first three parts are here.

IV.

(invidia)

ENVY

There is not a single proper wedding dress, ordered from London, or Paris, or any other place, that lacks a corset. Whether or not this is any sort of statement on the institution itself, she'll not think about, because these are not the things a bride should think of. Most especially not on her wedding day. She could simplify her life, perhaps even find some semblance of peace, if she could only see things superficially, and not seek anymore. If a corset could only be an undergarment, or a pirate, nothing but a common criminal.

Instead she pushes a stray hair into place, examining her reflection in the mirror, as though gazing at a portrait; a cold, expensive image of the last person she thought she'd become.

It wasn't, by any means, an indictment on her love for Will, and this was the thing she could not reconcile. She still could not imagine sleep without his weight next to her, without his constant blanket-thievery, without nudging him awake, five times a night, to keep from falling off the bed, and at least another four, just to cause him, in a state of half-dream, to wrap his arms around her, bury his face in her chest, and drift back into rest.

There were times when she wanted him to cover her, and wash the sin away, wash away the smell of betrayal, and sweat. She wanted to be content, to be happy, and in love, in a small house somewhere in the country. She did not want to be plagued with thoughts of faraway beaches, or the incessant longing that caused her throat to constrict. It is human nature to crave the unattainable, but her sin was quite different, in that the unattainable was all she craved. Her sin was wanting more than the whole of the world could provide.

"Look at it."

His voice is almost as smooth as the sandalwood smoke that pours from the censor hanging in the corner, erasing, and overwhelming what's left of her senses, until the only two things in the world are that voice, and the silver coin moving, on a chain, back and forth in front of her eyes. It's a bauble he picked up somewhere, he'd said, nothing but a bit of shine, something to play with.

She cannot recall how this little game had started, nor could she fathom his reasoning, but when Jack puts his mind to something, no matter how absurd the task may seem, he's dedicated. A tiny nervous laugh escapes her, and she breaks the coin's hold, "I'm sorry, I can't," she looks away, still laughing, "it's all, too ..." she stops, unsure of what she was about to say. He's still repeating the same motion, tiny flickers of silver moving past his white, and gold smile.

"Just look at it." He says, in a soothing tone, "Just exist, luv," it is never a good thing for a betrothed woman to be so acutely aware of another man's breathing, "just be."

She cannot recall how she'd gotten here, in his cabin, anchored in a cove near her home. Whatever reason she had for coming here, to him, on the night before her wedding, had passed away with the last drops of his rum supply.

The coin passes again, and she knows she'll be hypnotized completely if she allows it. Still, she gives in. To the smoke, to the rum, to the tension that passes between them like water; to that little trinket. She hates him in that moment, that he can "be", that he can "exist", that he can leave, and head out toward wherever he pleases. She hates that he does not take her with him; hates his incomparable luck.

"Look at me." He says, and she meets his eyes, something hot, and dangerous, and she admits it's not hatred, but jealously.

"Look at yourself."

The motion has stopped, and she is droopy-eyed in the dim light, hair coming unpinned, falling in messy ringlets around her face. But there's an engraving in the reflection, in the silver. An elaborately carved jolly roger, almost like the image she recalled on the Aztec gold that'd started the entire affair. He grins, pleased that's she noticed, and starts to stand, to move behind her, and fasten the gift around her neck.

"Such a shame you had to go and lose the last one," He whispers against the nape of her neck, "always thought silver suited you better, any way."

To anyone who's likely to ask, she'll reply that it's "something old", the glistening pendant tucked beneath layers of status; a secret for only the two of them, the Pearl, and the sea to know.

Thu, 15 Mar 2007 09:27:37 GMT

TITLE: Seven Deadly Sins
PAIRING: Jack/Elizabeth
RATING: R
SUMMARY: For a long time I'd had the idea to write a series of short J/E drabbles, like a series, each one themed with a different one of the seven deadly sins. So um, that's what this is, parts 1, 2 & 3, which are "lust", "gluttony", and "sloth", and I've used gluttony here in the original context, not to speak about food, but about excess----- I think you'll see what I mean. More to come soon, promise! Feedback is better than crack. Also? I am completely open to suggestions/plot-bunnies for the rest of the sin I have to cover. This leaves, greed, wrath, envy, and pride.

I.

(luxuria)

LUST

Falling asleep in William's arms was not as easy as it once was. Now, even after their lovemaking had subsided, and most couples would find themselves tangled in post-coital bliss, she found herself restless, perhaps even more than before he'd stolen that first, unsteady kiss. He had stumbled across her diary, she could be certain, and was only thankful that she'd remained vague, even in her most private musings. Thankful, because there was one name that did not get uttered in the Turner household, though neither husband, nor wife, was willing to admit the reason.

Thankful, because there were somethings better left unsaid, despite that the fact that her eyes already told him more than he could bear.

The reason for her certainty was found in the red lines running down her back; in the vessels, splayed and broken across her neck, and in the muffled cries that caused servant's passing by the door to cross themselves, before continuing about their daily chores. These things, as much as they pleased the secret wickedness she kept hidden beneath proper upbringing, were the things she wrote about, the things she dreamed of, on nights when Will was either working late, or too busy to take notice of her existence. She would guide Will's would-be tender hand to her hair, closing her fist over his, forcing him to tug harder, but now, either through snooping, or through experience, he had begun to catch on.

Still, his hands were not rough enough; his beard, too fine. She craved the matted tangle snaking through her fingers, the coolness of beads brushing her cheek, the serenade of clinking coins, playing a song of bonfires, and sunsets in her ear.

If she were a good wife, she wouldn't start in the wee hours, and abandon her husband's bed. She would not retreat to some dark corner of their tiny house, two fingers thrust into herself; she wouldn't taste the blood in her mouth, as she chews through her lip to keep from crying the unutterable name.

II.

(gula)

GLUTTONY

If there is one thing he loves about her, it's her ability to say four things at once. At least, in some cases, sometimes, maybe only three. Point is, the woman had, what you'd call "layers". She speaks novels, entire volumes, when no one is listening, or, more accurately, only listening that what she says. He counts her statements, like he counts her smiles (which are also numerous, when no one's looking). For instance, when she says, "Why is that every time you come to call, and, inevitably, you bring rum, you tell me to slow down, like I'm a child, or some sort of prim, affected princess?"

He hears,

"I am suffocating here,"

"Teach me to be like you are,"

"There's quite a lot I'd like to forget in a drunken haze,"

and, above all, "You git, this is our time, and I'll keep up, and prolong it, by any means."

There is always a chance, he reminds himself, that the last bit was imagined.

Instead of answering her question, (because, frankly, they'd been over, many times, the speed at which one should consume vast quantities of rum, and more importantly, when worst comes to worse, at least try and miss the boots), he shrugs, as though he'd only just remembered she was there, and takes the bottle from her hand without a word. However, before she can protest too much, he's raised a single finger aloft, hypnotizing her with it's incessant sway, "Ah, ah, ah, before you have a fit," he shifts, pulling a draw string pouch from his belt, "I've brought you something."

He pauses, to appease his ever-present drive toward dramatic effect, and pulls a tiny, circular black rock from the pouch, and from his belt, a long pipe, made of ivory, with engravings like nothing she'd ever seen before. After a moment, she starts to ask, "What is i---"

"Opium, luv, a magical little treasure I picked up on one of many trips to the Orient."

"Jack! How did you get th--" Her tone, pretended, for a moment to be indignant, to be outraged by such a impropriety, but, in the end, she gave into the curiosity she'd had since birth, "---Well, I suppose it's no worse than that plant you brought last time," she stopped, remembering that night fondly, "the one you said the slaves grew, what did they call it?"

"Ganja." He smiled, devilishly, "Enjoyed that, did you?"

She nodded.

"Good then," he held the rock in the way of the firelight, revealing an tint, beneath the black, that was almost red; somewhere between rust, and mahogany, "then you'll be fine, right as rain, what ever that means---" His tangent was cut short by a quick glare, indicating that he should go on, "but, I'll warn you," he placed it into the end of the pipe, "there's a reason those Asian blokes smoke lying down."

She arched a curious eyebrow as he took a twig from the bonfire, and held the flame to the pipe. He blew a ring of smoke that brushed past her face, the smoke was sweet, like an exotic perfume from some far off place she'd never get to. He steadied himself, moved his head slowly from one side to the other, examining the shift in his surroundings, before instructing her, "Now, it's already lit, darling, just breathe in, and hold, like before."

Her peripheral pulsated, the world contracting, then expanding around her, and she exhaled, watching the wind carry the balmy smoke out of sight. She lay down next to Jack in the sand, her hand found his, somehow, through the haze, brushing his knuckles with the pad of her thumb. He said nothing, or made no indication that he noticed her gesture. Perhaps it was because he was too far gone, himself, or, more likely, it was because he was aware that a woman under the influence of altered perception was, maybe, not in the best position to make such rash choices.

"How do we always end up here, Jack?" She whispered, so softly he thought he'd imagined it.

He shrugged, pretending that her question did not mean as much as she meant it to, "I've always enjoyed making contribution to the debauchery of others," he places a disingenuous hand over his heart, "makes me feel and warm, and soft-like."

She rolls her eyes, and, amidst the countless points of light, she catches a glimpse of Cassiopeia, "Well, considering I've still got to be on my way before the sun comes up," she sighs, "I'd say you haven't debauched me very throughly, at all."

And he hears,

"But, there are two hours until then,"

"I believe it is imperative for me to smoke more of that remarkable rock,"

"Thank you,"

and, above all, "Take me with you, please."

III.

(acedia)

SLOTH

A wise man once noted that "work" and "pirates" are two concepts that do not agree with one another. He, observant as he may have been, was probably some puritanical bastard, and besides that, to spend too long trying to remember his name would disprove the wisdom of his wise statement.

Jack thought, perhaps, he drank too much.

But, that was a silly thought, brought on, probably, by drinking too much.

It would be easy to make some noble argument about the abolition of work. To quote Socrates, or Aristotle, or some great political thinker. There would be almost no challenge at all, finding the words to express the meaning of liberty, and to expose, once and for all, the evils of the mighty "trade". Loss of life, loss of limb, shame, degradation, a general feeling of "blech", not to mention the hours----

Frankly, though, making that argument would take far too much effort, and there were naps to be had, and bottles to be emptied, and really, when you strip away all the sickening philosophical prose, who ever heard of a pirate with a work ethic?

Tue, 13 Mar 2007 21:01:06 GMT

Title: Downfall
Pairing: Jack/Elizabeth
Rating: PG-13 (character death x2)
Summary: Elizabeth's very old, and she remembers Jack in his last moments. It's a one-shot/drabble.

Time, and the histories of biased men have a way of distorting the truth. One would be hard pressed to find, tucked away in any book, the mention of the look that used to cross his face while sleeping; an entire poem dedicated to horizons, and the sharpness of stars against the cold black of sea-faring nights. Through the endless process of creating heroes, and villains, the steady rise and fall of his breath gets lost in translation. No one will write of his smile, or of the glint that never left his eye. No schoolboy will ever learn that his original crime had been the belief that people are not cargo, and a natural oblivion to the lines that most are expected to reside in. These things belong only to her; these things darken each day, losing their luster to the dim twilight of spectacles, and age.

Elizabeth does not recount the details of his laughter when children come to hear the tales of the infamous pirate captain; she doesn't tell them of his skin, a map of gunpowder, and jagged, spidering lines, pulled taut across sinew and bone. And when they ask of his end, she turns, and glances out the window, squinting hard against the sun, and says nothing. She fakes an ache of some sort, or says that it's far past time for her nap. She would prefer to tell them of Nassau Port, or sea turtles.

Rain falls heavy, fingers on ivory, spilling down the window pane like tears that she's far too old for, and she watches, from her bed, willing herself to drift into sleep.

"No, not without you!"

"Come now, darling, please----"

She shakes her head furiously, clutching at his hands, trying to pretend that she did not see the fear in his eyes. But she cannot deny the sound of cannons, or the boarding Navy men, moving ever closer. He wraps a gentle arm around her waist, guiding her to the retreating longboat, and his strength is too much for her to resist.

"Into the boat, 'lizabeth, shhh," he strokes her hair, trying to be tender, and quick, all at the same time. Ever aware of the approaching danger, and of the hopelessness of his situation. "Don't you worry about ole' Jack, now, luv, I always find a way."

For all of his experience, he really was a horrible liar.

He ducks suddenly, when a shot flies by and embeds itself in the railing just behind her, and she takes the opportunity to rip free from his grasp, and grab the pistol off his belt. She fires two shots into the oncoming force, and ducks again, ignoring the worried shouts coming from Jack's direction. But she barely hears him say, "Lizzie," and something inside causes her to turn. His eyes are wide, as he removes a bloody hand from his side, and collapses onto the deck.

When Estrella comes in to wake Mrs. Turner, she does not stir. The Doctor would say she had died of a broken heart, but the townspeople would eternally whisper that her soul had sailed away somewhere; they would speak of the ghostly ship with black sails, that, by the next day, could barely be seen on the horizon.

Tue, 23 Jan 2007 23:35:21 GMT

TITLE: (untitled)or(epilogue)
PAIRING: Will and Elizabeth (not in a good way ;p) & Jack and Elizabeth
RATING: PG-13
AN: This is an epilogue to the piece I just recently wrote, Consequence, because I felt like it needed something at the end, some mention of Will, and his opinion of all this Sparrabeth nonsense. It's drabble sized, but, that's because it's only a post-credit ending.

His eyes are open when she enters the room, creeping across the floor to the bed; he's facing the wall, back turned to her line of sight. He hears her undress, and shifts, as though he were asleep, when she pulls back the blanket, and crawls in. She wraps her arms around him, cold hands splayed across his chest, and nuzzles the hollow between shoulder blades.

She thinks he doesn't notice when she smells like rum at dawn. Doesn't notice the lack of a warm body, or the lullaby of her breath. He pretends to be oblivious, staring across the room, and out the open window, he pretends to be asleep, until he notices, she smells like sweat, and guilt, too.

He doesn't flinch when she kisses her way up his back, gently; not even when she whispers, "I love you," into his hair.

Tue, 16 Jan 2007 12:16:53 GMT

TITLE: Consequence
PAIRING: Jack and Elizabeth
RATING: Hard R (good old fashioned infidelity)
DISCLAIMER: If it were mine, this exact thing would happen.
AN: I've incorporated a few lines, or ideas from various drabbles I've written it the past, and fleshed them out a bit if I felt they deserved a longer, more revised story to go into. Set sometime post-AWE, but I don't make any assumptions (or, many) as to what happens in the movie. Better to wait.

"Darling, you still have far too much interest in consequence."

"A habit you haven't yet broken me of, I suppose."

"In time," He mutters quietly, burning holes into her with his charcoal gaze, "in time."

She tells herself that these midnight rendezvous mean nothing, that it's only an old friend, only a bit of fun, only a way of keeping herself occupied while her husband dreams dreams in which his wife is most decidedly not drinking with a pirate captain into the wee hours. She forces phantom hands, rough against her unmarred skin, out of her consciousness, out of her dreams; waking, and sleeping, so that when faced with actual flesh and blood, she tells herself she can't remember what he tasted like. She tells herself that it's not a slow, painful battle to go back to shore in the morning, that it isn't getting harder not to beg him to take her with him, like she'd always wanted, in a different lifetime.

It's been far too many years to talk about old betrayals, and who killed whom, it all gets so complicated after awhile.

"Besides," She begins, "in this particular instance, forgive me, I'm sure I've more than enough cause to consider consequence." Pirates take what is not theirs, it's as natural as breathing, Jack is no exception, "You do realize I'm a married woman." This was not a question.

He places his hands together, a mea culpa, begging the lady's forgiveness, "Not attempting to take advantage, luv, only pointing out what you've already told me."

A sign escapes her barely parted lips, and she regards him imploringly, "And what, pray tell, have I already told you, Jack, I've said nothing to that effect."

"But your body betrays you, Mrs. Turner, even the way you breathe." He moves closer, beads moving against each other, his matted mane creating a curtain around her face that shuts out the entire world, he whispers, and the air she draws in tastes like rum, "You know what you've come here for."

He wasn't sure who he was trying to test, himself, or the girl. He was equally unsure as to how either of them were doing.

"I'm here," She presses the bottle to her lips, letting the burn run down her throat and into her belly, "because I've become a horribly boring housewife, and I've a need for things more exciting than needle work," he knows the little laugh she gives when she's nervous, it's a strangled giggle that never quite escapes her throat, "and I've decided, Captain Sparrow, that an old friend is the perfect remedy, no more, no less."

"Couldn't be boring if you tried."

"I'm not trying," it's just something that happens, that's what all the old couples say, "I love Will." She's not sure why she said it.

"And he loves you."

"And he loves me."

"So then it stands to reason that he knows you're here," He pauses, moving ever closer, punctuating each word with some sort of grand gesture, "knows exactly where you are, and has no qualms about you, and your old friend, yeah?"

"No."

"No." He nods, a glint in his eye caused by confirmed suspicion, "Now, Elizabeth, is that any sort of behavior for a boring housewife?"

"No."

"'Course not."

He takes another drink.

She follows suit.

"You know, my Mother, before she died, used to read to me before bed. She would always let me pick the story, just one, but, it could be any one I wanted," For a moment he thinks he sees tears forming behind her inebriated eyes, "sometimes it would be Bartholomew Roberts, or Anne Bonny, but, most nights, I wanted to hear about you."

"I knew Annie," He takes another swig, "and Jack," his tone grows quiet, "I was in the crowd, I saw what they did to him." She fights the urge to place her hand on his back, and instead takes another drink, after raising her bottle to his, "You remind me of her, a little."

"Who's that?"

"Anne."

It means something.

"Roberts, on the other hand," he makes a face, as though the rum had begun to disagree with him, "complete wanker, and crazy, too. Ah, but he had unrivaled loyalty. Did you know that his men, once he was killed, promptly gave up and started drinking, and by the time the Navy men went aboard to capture them, they found all the pirates drunk and----"

"---crying." She finishes, nodding; she's heard it before. Still, he notices her face light up, as though she's a child, hearing her stories from the man who lived them. He smiles, genuinely, a way that few ever witness.

"Like very drunk squalling infants."

She notices suddenly that his hand has settled on her thigh, and is subtlety moving, gripping, "There are some who'd say the consequence is damnation." She says without much conviction, without moving away as he comes forward, once more; as he moves in, slow, and fast, and without allowing a proper amount of reaction time.

"Give me hell," He traces her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, she feels him shiver when she takes it into her mouth, "it's a merrier place."

She tells herself to never forget what he tastes like again, or his hands on her skirts, clutching, pulling, and fueling the white hot fire growing in the pit of her stomach. He tastes like secrets, salt, sin, and all manner of other things un-befitting a lady of station. His mouth spells out betrayal along her collarbone in broken blood vessels. He is an idea, who's sole purpose is sating the desires of women doomed to wake next to mediocrity. He is an abstraction invented to give hope to the cloistered. He is a fairy tale that tugs at her hair like salvation.

"Jack," She's panting, shaking; he's always known when she's nervous, "what are you trying to do?"

"Nothing, luv," He brushes the hair from her face, "I only open the doors, you decide whether or not to walk through them."

There are three empty rum bottles.

"I don't think I could walk at all right now, actually."

"Not even so far as my cabin?"

"I'm not yours."

He flinches, and grabs her left hand, pressing it hard against his, palm to palm, scar to scar, "Yes," he whispers, harshly, "you are." He watches her resolve crumble, "The compass doesn't lie, darling."

His shirt is off by the time they tumble through the cabin door, his mouth covering hers takes her mind off the pain when her back meets hard wall, and she's arching into him, clawing at his back, leaving bloody half moons in her wake. She gasps when he cuts her corset laces, moving against the leather-bound hand that cups her breast, the calloused thumb that brushes her nipple. She pulls at his belt, and breeches, down, and off; he presses against her, pinning her even closer to the wall. She pouts, with wet, swollen lips, when he stops touching her, when he reaches to untie his bandanna.

Hair falls in his face, wild and unruly, but it's a sight she only enjoys until he ties the dirty red cloth around her eyes. She feels her remaining underskirt fall, and then he lifts her, both legs wrapped around his waist, he pushes into her, and she stops thinking.

Will touches her like glass, like she's the porcelain doll that exists in every portrait her Father ever had commissioned. This is what it means to be pillaged, this is her age of exploration. She tells herself that William would never, ever kiss her like that.

Not anymore.

He grunts into her neck, hot, hurried breaths sticking to the flesh. His ever-moving fingers find her center, tracing small circles, causing her to bite into his shoulder to keep from crying out. She reaches up, pushing the bandanna from her eyes, and finally meets his lusty stare. He is the most beautiful thing she's ever seen; then all she sees are stars. She catches his earlobe between her teeth, and he shudders inside of her, collapsing, finally, against her chest.

Dressing is done is silence, as is the sunrise row back to shore, and most of the goodbye that followed. He starts to walk away, back toward the beach, back toward his sea.

"Rum." She whispers, because that's what she's telling herself now that the tremblings subsided, and he turns, as though she'd caused him to remember something.

He stops short of her, regarding her carefully for a moment, and then pulls his hand from his pocket.

"You might want this back, before you go." He's produced her wedding ring, and she's not sure if she lost it in the haze, or if he'd taken it, as some sort of statement. "For the sake of appearances," He pauses, "and blacksmiths."

He takes her left hand again, and places it back on her finger. She says nothing, only nods, and turns to walk back toward town. She thinks she hears him say it would never have worked, anyhow.

epilogue.

Wed, 10 Jan 2007 07:39:39 GMT

Here is a random thing I wrote because it occurred to me, as I was packing my bowl for the second time, that Jamaica and marijuana are nowadays always almost thought of together, and, Port Royal is in Jamaica, and Jack is a pirate and a fan of inebriates in all their forms, and Elizabeth is eager for experience, and you see where I'm going with this. So here. I don't have a title. I'm open to suggestions.

Is this altogether historically accurate? I'm not sure.
Did I try to find out? I mean, I Googled it.
Do I care? Decidedly not.

"Jack Sparrow!" She squawks with faux indignance, "If I were a suspicious woman, I might suspect that your intentions here are less than honorable." When, in fact, such an assumption would not have been suspicious at all, so much as common sense. It had taken her nearly an entire bottle to draw this conclusion.

He straightens, and places his hand over his heart as though she'd done him some injury with her accusation, "Wouldn't dream of such a thing, luv. I only open the doors, you're the one who walks through them."

"I don't think I could walk at all right now, actually."

Rendezvous such as these have long become priorities. Once a month she tells herself it's only a bit of fun, only an old friend, only anything else she needs to tell herself to justify leaving a sleeping Will to dream dreams in which his wife isn't stealing away with a pirate in the middle of the night. They do not talk about her betrayal, they do not talk about what could have happened. They sit in the crow's nest, high above the deck of the Pearl, anchored close to shore, until the sun starts to creep across the horizon.

He never offers to take her with him.

She never asks.

They drink.

They drink until the gold band on her finger feels almost nonexistent, until the only song she knows is his song, until her vision blurs, and the stars blink in and out of focus with every glance. When the morning inevitably comes, she has to force herself to leave. To walk back to her provincial settlement, and get back to bed before mediocrity realizes she's gone.

"Well, if you've already found yourself in such a state, after naught but a few sips, perhaps you should slow down a bit, I've not even shown you my surprise, yet."

Waving her now empty bottle she attempts a meager defense, "More like an entire bottle, a few sips, honestly, Jack, not all of us are blessed with your pirate constitution." If a stomach for alcohol could be called a blessing, at all. She arches an brow, and examines him closely for a moment, as if only just hearing the end of his statement, "Surprise?"

He leans forward, taking one final swig from his third bottle is as many hours, "First rule of piracy, luv," he holds one finger aloft, but it cannot seem to keep from swaying, she is almost mesmerized, "one bottle is only a few sips, and yes, I've got a surprise for you, but only if you close your eyes."

She regards him for a moment, trying to figure out exactly what he's got planned, and finally concedes, closing her eyes. She hears him shifting, beads moving against each other, fabric rustling, and then, finally, "Alright, go on, open them."

There's a long pause.

"It's a," and then another, "uh, a plant." She narrows her eyes, "It is a plant, isn't it?"

"Not just, a plant, darling, the plant, the only plant you need worry your pretty head about."

It, by all appearances, was a green, leafy, bud of some sort. He had three of them, that he'd pulled from a leather bag on his belt, along with a pipe. He went on for awhile about how the slaves grew it, brought it from somewhere or another, but the rum was making it increasingly difficult for her to process all of the details. She blinked.

"And," and then again, "what does it do?"

Sat, 21 Oct 2006 01:07:45 GMT

I was going to post this on the oh-so-useless anarchists, but decided against it. However, I think I want to do something with it, flesh it out, make it more than a semi-coherent soapbox rant, more in the way of, maybe, Indymedia.

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You know, I really hate most anarchists.

Funny thing for me to say, right? But it's true. I don't mean, "damn those Hot Topic shopping poser bastards," even though, yeah. No, I mean "legit" anarchists. I mean a lot of the organizers, and the overwhelming majority of people on black blocs. I mean the internet elitists who wage snark wars from the safety of their computer chairs. I mean most anyone that sports a circle-a. Fuck you guys. Seriously. Fuck you. I hate that we sit around congratulating ourselves about Seattle, when it happened almost a decade ago, and really didn't change a damn thing in the grand scheme. I can appreciate the effort, I can appreciate fighting because it's the right thing to do, despite the fact that victory might not happen. I can get behind those things. Those things are great. But a victory-less fight stops being noble when the fight tactics weren't meant to lead to a win in the first place. Only attention, or a night spent in jail to get some sort of cred. No one can actually believe these things are going to work, right? Fuck you all and your prententious assumption that alienating the rest of society is somehow going to make people want to join your cause. Fuck you all for not caring if the rest of society joins your cause. You do realize a few middle class kids with mohawks, no matter how good their ideas are, aren't going to get a goddamn thing done, aye? Boycott this, march against that, repeat as needed. Have these tactics ever worked? Maybe I'm just full of resentment because I don't have that idealism anymore. Maybe not. Maybe I don't consider it idealism, so much as stupidity, and it's pretty natural for me to resent stupidity. Or maybe it's because I'm a more-militant-than-thou chick with a hard-on for the big-and-revolutionary, and none of your trite ass tactics are enough to catch my attention.

I talk about being an anarchist about as much as I talk about being a Virginian. It's something that people know, it might get mentioned from time to time, and I do spend a fair amount of time talking politics in general, but --- you get the point. I hate people who think they're going to save the common worker by not having a venti white mocha before work. I hate people that think eating tofu is somehow going to cause the system to collapse on itself. I hate people that think wrapping a black bandanna around their face once or twice a year, and kicking over dumpsters off Constitution Ave. is going to scare the President into resignation (or even into giving us a time-table).

Maybe it's because there haven't been real anarchists in almost 300 years, and that was before they even had such a title. It's because it's nothing but a scene now, and a century ago it was nothing but a group of intellectuals writing books and speaking to the disillusioned. It's because the only really anarchistic act in the past hundred years was committed by a guy whom the anarchist movement shunned and abandoned. And hell, even he went about it all wrong.

So keep creating more meaningless zines. Keep chucking molotov cocktails through Starbuck's windows, and arguing over who's brand of bullshit is more valid. The gears will keep on turning, because the hard truth is that no one is willing to be the wrench.

Instead I think I'll take the lesson that I've been missing for three years. I'm concerned with my freedom. Mine. And I really don't have to be all that concerned about it, because I know it's there, autonomous of any government mandate, or phantom liberties. The secret, I think, is to live by example. Gandhi's whole "be the change" deal, only with a slightly more piratical twist. And if anyone wants to actually make a difference? Yeah, I guess I'd be down for that. So I guess, to twist an old idea, I'm an anarchist in practice, and not in theory. Because, really, the last thing we need are more theories.

Mon, 16 Oct 2006 08:57:10 GMT

So I was gonna write a drabble, but then it became a half-a-drabble. A really short drabble. And another half-of-a-short-drabble that is unrelated, except for the ship being the same. Just because. Bugger. Oh well.

This is for you, tephroliah. ♥

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i.

He tastes like secrets, salt, sin, and all manner of other things un-befitting a lady of station. His mouth spells out betrayal along her collarbone in broken blood vessels. Jack is an idea, who's sole purpose is sating the desires of women doomed to wake next to mediocrity. He is an abstraction invented to give hope to the cloistered. He is a fairy tale that tugs at her hair like salvation.

ii.

His eyes burn cold scars into her skin, flashing with a sense of coming vindication. She hardly has time to react before her back meets brick, and a pain shoots up her spine. He is covering her body with his, and then it's all teeth and tougues, then she's strugging to catch her breath; this is her age of exploration.