(no subject)
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.
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.