the Dalaverse

Um, I felt the need to fic for Mother's Day? Elizabeth collects histories - post-AWE, Will/Elizabeth, G, 1100 words. Warning for sentimentality.

This has been...a really long dry spell. Something like seven months. Whoa.



Pressed In a Book


She should never have started with Jack. He stroked his mustache thoughtfully, a gleam of storytelling fervor in his eyes, and began a tale of intrigue and romance at a sultan’s court in Madagascar. Lurid though it was – and well as she knew Jack – she actually believed the story until halfway through, when he was describing how his dashing father had lost a finger in the battle for the beautiful maiden’s affections. Elizabeth was preparing to point out that Teague was in possession of all ten fingers, but Jack was enjoying himself so much that she let him continue and tried to conceal her skepticism. Though her career amongst the pirates was still in its infancy, she had already gained copious experience in sitting through improbable sea yarns. It didn’t hurt that Jack was one of the more capable spinners.

Later she asked Teague if Jack had been born to a sultry-eyed sultan’s daughter, and he snorted.

“Jacky’s ma was a Creole fisherwoman on Hispaniola. She was a plump, pretty lass, not a sultana. The bit about callin’ me a no-account thieving rake is true, though it were the lass herself speaking rather than any rival suitor.” He must have seen the confusion on Elizabeth’s face, for he added in a quieter voice, “She died in a storm when Jack was three. ‘Twas her sisters what kept him until he was old enough to go to sea.”

“Oh,” said Elizabeth, subdued, thinking she preferred the first story. She wrote both versions down anyway

Gibbs’ mother was a Bristol laundress. Bold as brass, he described her, with a laugh you couldn’t help but join. Though she’d been dead some twenty years, the scent of lye still reminded him of her work-roughened hands and the chanteys he’d learned at her knee.

“They like t’ hear your voice,” he said with a smile. Elizabeth was suddenly afraid that he would burst into song for the benefit of her stomach, but he merely patted her arm.

Tai Huang had been born in a Canton brothel to one of its younger prostitutes. She’d had a rough time of it when he was a small boy; nonetheless, his happier memories came from that time and not after she’d married a local merchant. The man was not unkind, but he had never treated his wife’s illegitimate son as any kind of family. She still lived in a small house by the harbor and Tai Huang often picked out pretty trinkets from a raid to send to her.

It had became something of an obsession, a way to occupy her idle hours after she’d put the Empress into the harbor at Shipwreck Cove for the last few weeks. She wrote and rewrote the stories, long and involved like Jack’s or short and matter-of-fact like Anamaria’s. She tried to keep each voice authentic while making some necessary concessions to spelling and grammar. Though some of the parties she interviewed were curious about her project, most of them chalked it up to the peculiarities of a breeding woman. When she finally got the chance to ask Will for his contribution, one corner of his mouth lifted and his gaze was warm, if a trifle sad. She had known that he of all people would understand.

“I can tell you my story more completely, though you already know most of it,” he said, thumbing through the little leather volume. “But you haven’t written yours yet.”

“I’d forgotten,” Elizabeth admitted ruefully. She drew her dressing gown over her shoulders and eased out of bed, sitting down at the battered desk beneath the window. As she fiddled with the inkwell, the baby woke and began making fretful noises. Will lifted him with more confidence than he’d shown the day before, though still with much care. The knowledge that his duties would call him away shortly had a significant impact on his learning curve.

She tapped her pen on the paper, searching for the words. It wasn’t simply that she’d forgotten. The truth was that she knew very little of her mother to begin with. Even during this strange and new time in her life, she had rarely thought on that early loss.

My father loved my mother, she wrote. It was true but seemed a poor start, so she scratched it out.

Sighing, she rubbed the back of her neck and wondered if James wanted feeding. But he was quiet now, and she saw that he’d already fallen back to sleep. Will settled the infant on his lap, gazing down at the small face with fierce concentration. Elizabeth watched the tableau for a full minute, and she could swear he scarcely blinked. She began again.

Even before we are of an age to remember, we take in so much of the world. My mother was Catherine Margaret Swann and she came from Dorset. In the miniature I have –

She created an unsightly inkblot in changing ‘have’ to ‘had,’ for the portrait had been among her father’s possessions in Port Royal and she could hardly claim it now.

- her hair is much like mine, though her eyes are grey. We also had a Bible that had been passed down through her family, with my name listed beneath hers.

A bird cried harshly outside the window. James opened his mouth and both his parents tensed, but all that came out was a yawn. Will stroked the boy’s open palm, no broader than the two fingers over which James closed his fist.

My father said she loved to ride, disliked cold weather and was terrible at embroidery. She sneezed twice whenever she walked from the shade into the sunshine. I think they were happy. I imagine I was a happy baby.

Elizabeth bit her lip, hearing the voices of old tutors criticize her prose and her penmanship. Though she kept the logbook for her ship, it was much like the French conjugations of old. She was unaccustomed to writing for herself alone and each word was an effort.

My mother was beautiful. My mother was strong. I wish I’d had more time with her. I am glad to have known her at all. I hope that wherever she is, she might look on and be proud to call me daughter.

Will was up, laying their son down in the cradle. She blotted the page quickly, suddenly reluctant to show him the brief, clumsy fruit of a quarter hour’s labor. He blinked when Elizabeth put the book aside and returned to bed.

“I thought you wanted to take mine down.”

She brought his hand to her lips and kissed the spark-scars between his knuckles. “Another time. Memories will keep.”