the Dalaverse

I couldn't let Halloween pass without doing a bit of seasonal fic. Jack at the end of all things, plus visitors three. Probably steals from Homer, unconsciously.



Lamentations



It was chill and dark where he was. Jack might have likened it to a cave, if he didn’t carry such strong associations of blood and gold with caves; neither to be found here. He had the uncanny feeling that walls were closing in on him, for the sounds he made were contained, but no matter how far he walked or in what direction, his path was never hindered. If it was a cavern, it was a vast, empty one, and quite boring for either Heaven or Hell.

Then the women came to him.

He knew the first, even though he’d never met her before – knew her by her flashing brown eyes and the way she marched right up and slapped his face.

“Jack Sparrow,” she snarled, drawing her arm back with the clear intention of hitting him again, “you have caused my son nothing but trouble, and I ought to rend the flesh from your treacherous bones!”

He took a hasty step back, throwing up his hands to deflect another blow and wondering if strictly speaking he possessed flesh for her to rend – but then again, the slap had hurt. “Mrs. Turner, now, is ‘at any way of speaking t’ the man what helped rescue your boy’s ladylove?”

“Only to throw them both in danger once again – and a poor sort of girl she is for him, anyhow,” Kate Turner muttered, momentarily distracted from her rage at Jack. “I never meant him to marry so high as a governor’s daughter, nor so low as a lass in trousers who consorts with the likes of pirates…”

Jack might have mentioned that Will had done his own share of consorting, but he didn’t think she would appreciate the reasoning. Still, any sort of person other than himself was welcome after such prolonged solitude, and he offered his hand in peace. “Perhaps we should become properly acquainted?”

She frowned at him, looking just like Will at his most irritated, and fluttered her fingers in dismissal. “Oh, bugger off, you old swindler.” Turning sharply on her heel, she stalked away into the darkness.

“Wait!” Jack called, and started after her at a good clip, but she was gone as if she’d never been.

Some time after, he was sitting with his head on his knees, trying to sleep – not because he wanted or needed sleep, just because it was something else to do – when a soft touch alighted on his shoulder. He jerked to his feet, startling the woman into a squeak.

“I am sorry to disturb you, sir,” she said, so quietly it was nearly a whisper, “but please – you have seen my daughter, yes?”

Jack shrugged. She looked no more than a child herself. “I’ve seen a lot of daughters, mistress. What’s her name?”

“Elizabeth,” said the young woman, with a very pretty smile and a faint flush in her cheeks. “Her name is Elizabeth.”

Yes, Jack thought, his throat tightening, it certainly is. Her hair was golden and the shape of her mouth similar, but she was shorter and so much frailer than he never would have guessed. Elizabeth was hardly buxom, but there was a fine-forged strength in her slender frame, whereas her mother looked like she would be blown over by a stiff breeze.

“My name is Captain Jack Sparrow, Mrs. Swann.” Her hand, when he took it, reminded him of a bird’s bones, and without thinking he mused aloud, “You must have been very young when –” He stopped, uncertain about the social niceties of referring to one’s companion’s death.

But she didn’t seem perturbed; she merely smiled again, serene. “Yes, that is so. I am afraid Elizabeth does not think on me much, for she never knew me. But tell me, Captain Sparrow – is my daughter well?”

“Aye, miss, she’s quite well, hale and healthy and engaged to a fine fellow – son of a friend o’ mine, in fact.” In speaking Jack employed every liar’s trick he knew, though he suspected it was not difficult to deceive this fragile girl.

She sighed with relief, folding her hands at her breast. “Oh, I am glad to hear it – I had hoped Weatherby would do right by her. Even if he did want a son,” she murmured over her shoulder as she turned, fading away before he’d even realized she had taken a step.

The last walked up to him slowly from the shadows, fine brows drawn together as she studied him. She was silent for a few moments, and he studied her in return. A bit older than Bill’s wife, a bit plainer than Elizabeth’s mother – but her dark hair was rich and lustrous, and there was a depth of kindness in her gray eyes that he found a comfort in this dark, nameless place.

“So you’re Jack Sparrow,” she said at last, her voice even and deep for a woman. He imagined she would sing beautifully. One eyebrow twitched in a way that niggled at Jack’s memory as she added, “The infamous pirate.”

He grinned at that, and offered her a modest bow. “The very same. And may I inquire as to your name, madam?”

“You may,” she replied crisply. “It is Margaret Anne Norrington.”

Jack’s charm deflated immediately. “Oh,” he said, pursing his lips. “That one.”

“I feel as though I should despise you, Mr. Sparrow, for my son’s sake if nothing else,” continued the woman responsible for roughly half of the former commodore’s person. “But you are both older and younger that I’d thought, and it is throwing me off-kilter.”

He nodded in respect for her dilemma, and remarked, “You know, I’ve played host to three mothers today – or this hour, or this week, or whatever length of time it’s been.”

“But not your own,” she remarked with a curious tilt of her chin.

“Well, no,” said Jack in surprise, realizing this fact for the first time. “I suppose – I’ve no earthly reason to think she would be here.”

Only if you the upstanding citizen’s dam happen to be here, and she the bitter mother of a bastard pirate is not, but the bastard pirate himself is – what does that make 'here,' precisely?

A corner of her mouth lifted, and he was suddenly suspicious that she had heard him thinking it.

To cover the uncomfortable idea of anyone being privy to his thoughts, much less this woman, he said quickly, “P’raps there’s some heretofore-unknown restorative qualities in drinking and whoring that’ve kept her ticking long past her due.”

“Perhaps,” she acknowledged. “And perhaps, Jack Sparrow, you don’t know half so much as you think.”

She reached out to brush her warm fingertips against his cheek, and he closed his eyes, remembering the desperate haste of Elizabeth’s kiss, the note of defeat in Will’s voice, the dirt on Norrington’s face. All of it as sharp in the moment as it had been before the kraken – before the Pearl had –

When he opened his eyes she was gone, and he was alone once more.