Fic: Requiem
Title: Requiem
Author: breathless_dawn
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own it. Damn.
Pairing: J/E
Warnings: Death, angst, and the teensiest bit of language.
Summary: So this is a series of drabbles set post AWE. I wrote these over the course of about two months, whenever my muse could be bothered to give me a line or two, and just finished them up. I know this has been done a thousand times over but I needed to get my piece in *g*. Much love to the awesome djarum99 for her beta *huggles*
I
She feels only pain. White, searing, pain.
“Push, Elizabeth! For Christ’s sake, you have to push!” He is covered in her blood, his sleeves drenched in scarlet. A fine sheen of sweat makes his shirt stick to his body.
Tears glisten at the corners of her eyes, her brow dotted with sweat. Her muscles contract, and her hands clutch at the sheets. She is tired.
Both her heart and mind race. She thinks there must be something wrong, for it to hurt this much. For it to be happening so soon. She still has weeks, no, months.
“It’s almost over,” he promises, “come on, Lizzie.” Another contraction crashes over her and she screams, the pain overwhelming.
“Is he okay?” she asks when she can think again. He remains silent, but she can see in his eyes that something is not right. “Damn it, Jack! Is the baby alright?”
He looks down at a small bundle in his hands and meets her gaze again. “Elizabeth…” he starts hesitantly.
“Is he alright?” she demands again, feeling her heart beating fiercely against her ribcage.
II
He cradles her against him, placing a kiss on her sweaty forehead. No words are spoken. There is nothing to be said.
He pushes a sweat-dampened lock behind her ear. Finally he says, “Sleep, Bess. Need to sleep.”
Her son never took his first breath. He is small, too small, cradled in the cup of her palms. John Weatherby Turner was his name. She would call him Jack, she had thought.
But it no longer mattered; a stillborn child needs no name.
Exhaustion has taken its toll on her, but still she does not sleep, refuses to sleep. Ultimately, though, Jack succeeds in gently urging her into slumber, singing her lullabies in languages only he can understand, and giving her the comfort of his heartbeat, steady and sure, against her ear.
The next day Jack quietly asks where she wants to bury him. She says nothing, looking down at her baby, wrapped in soft muslin and sitting, unmoving, in the crook of her arm. She waits, hoping, praying, that she will see his chest rise and fall, hear the soft sigh of breath escape him.
He remains still.
“Lizzie?”
She turns her gaze to the pirate standing by her bed. “No,” she says. “I’ll not bind him here.”
Jack rows them out to deeper water. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, relishing the salt in the air and the pull of the waves. It has been too long since she’s been at sea. The boat stops and she glances at the horizon. She hopes her son will have better luck in reaching it as she pulls the sheet over his face.
She gives him to the sea. To his father. To freedom.
III
She stubbornly refuses his offer, tells him that she doesn’t want to leave. She’s not entirely sure why. Perhaps she believes that staying here would bring a miracle, bring back her son. Her husband. The life she thinks she’s lost.
“What’s left for you here, Lizzie?” he asks. She tells him that she’s grown attached to the island, her small house. He looks at her skeptically.
“Last time I checked,” he says, “my fierce pirate lady wasn’t set to settle down.” She knows he’s right, but chooses to focus on the ownership of said ‘fierce pirate lady’.
“Your pirate lady?” she asks raising an eyebrow.
“Slip of the tongue,” he says dismissively, pushing it away with a wave of his hands. “‘Sides, you’re missing the point, love.”
She gives him a pointed look. He ignores it.
“There’s no cage around you, Elizabeth.”
She stares at him. Her father said those same words, once. In a dream. She had cried, seeking her father’s guidance, his love and approval more than anything. And then he had come, pushing her chin up and wiping her tears away. He told her he was proud of her, that he would always love her. She was about to protest, saying that she had never been what he had expected from his daughter. But he had cut her off, telling her that there was no cage around her but the one she made for herself. She foolishly wonders if Jack can read her thoughts.
She comes to the conclusion that he probably can.
IV
He leaves. Much to her disappointment. She knows it was coming, but she had hoped, however unrealistically, that he may have been inclined to stay.
She starts questioning her decision not to leave with him. He had tried to convince her over the course of a week, with promises of adventures and treasure (some of this treasure, she suspected, had nothing whatsoever to do with riches), and she had come very close to breaking, almost gave into him. Almost.
But almost is never good enough. She stays and he leaves, and she doesn’t know when, or if, he will return. She misses him.
She misses him, more than she ever expected she would. She had woken in the early morning, to find sheets that had long since lost his warmth, his scent on the pillow the only remaining sign that he had ever been there. She had searched the house for him, called his name, in some small hope that he may come into view around a corner saying softly, “Here, love. I’m right here.”
He didn’t. And she is left achingly alone, wondering what kept her tethered here, when all she wants is to be out there, with him.
V
She is burning, her dreams plagued with fever. She cries out desperately for Will, seeing his death play over in her mind. It never seems to cease.
The blade plunges into his heart, his face contorts into one of terrible agony, and he writhes as the blade twists inside his ribcage, shredding his heart to pieces. The scarlet stain spreads over his shirt and he becomes still, much too still. “No,” she hears herself whisper.
“No!” she screams out loud, thrashing about and tangling herself in the bed clothes, not asleep but not really awake, either. And suddenly she feels herself being gathered into someone’s strong arms. She stills almost immediately, hot tears pouring out of her eyes as she looks up. “Will…” she says quietly, her voice strained from disuse.
He gently pushes her hair out of her face, lays her back into bed. He watches her worriedly. She tries to sit up again, but he pushes her back down. “Jack,” she says, recognition dawning in her fevered eyes.
“Shh.” He runs his fingers over her forehead, and she feels the coolness of rings against her scalding flesh.
“You came back,” she whispers as her eyelids drop, feeling much too heavy to hold open.
“Yes,” he says quietly.
“I love you,” she says.
“I know,” he says, taking her hand in his. She feels his lips brush the tops of her fingers as she falls back into a quiet slumber.
Author: breathless_dawn
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own it. Damn.
Pairing: J/E
Warnings: Death, angst, and the teensiest bit of language.
Summary: So this is a series of drabbles set post AWE. I wrote these over the course of about two months, whenever my muse could be bothered to give me a line or two, and just finished them up. I know this has been done a thousand times over but I needed to get my piece in *g*. Much love to the awesome djarum99 for her beta *huggles*
I
She feels only pain. White, searing, pain.
“Push, Elizabeth! For Christ’s sake, you have to push!” He is covered in her blood, his sleeves drenched in scarlet. A fine sheen of sweat makes his shirt stick to his body.
Tears glisten at the corners of her eyes, her brow dotted with sweat. Her muscles contract, and her hands clutch at the sheets. She is tired.
Both her heart and mind race. She thinks there must be something wrong, for it to hurt this much. For it to be happening so soon. She still has weeks, no, months.
“It’s almost over,” he promises, “come on, Lizzie.” Another contraction crashes over her and she screams, the pain overwhelming.
“Is he okay?” she asks when she can think again. He remains silent, but she can see in his eyes that something is not right. “Damn it, Jack! Is the baby alright?”
He looks down at a small bundle in his hands and meets her gaze again. “Elizabeth…” he starts hesitantly.
“Is he alright?” she demands again, feeling her heart beating fiercely against her ribcage.
II
He cradles her against him, placing a kiss on her sweaty forehead. No words are spoken. There is nothing to be said.
He pushes a sweat-dampened lock behind her ear. Finally he says, “Sleep, Bess. Need to sleep.”
Her son never took his first breath. He is small, too small, cradled in the cup of her palms. John Weatherby Turner was his name. She would call him Jack, she had thought.
But it no longer mattered; a stillborn child needs no name.
Exhaustion has taken its toll on her, but still she does not sleep, refuses to sleep. Ultimately, though, Jack succeeds in gently urging her into slumber, singing her lullabies in languages only he can understand, and giving her the comfort of his heartbeat, steady and sure, against her ear.
The next day Jack quietly asks where she wants to bury him. She says nothing, looking down at her baby, wrapped in soft muslin and sitting, unmoving, in the crook of her arm. She waits, hoping, praying, that she will see his chest rise and fall, hear the soft sigh of breath escape him.
He remains still.
“Lizzie?”
She turns her gaze to the pirate standing by her bed. “No,” she says. “I’ll not bind him here.”
Jack rows them out to deeper water. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, relishing the salt in the air and the pull of the waves. It has been too long since she’s been at sea. The boat stops and she glances at the horizon. She hopes her son will have better luck in reaching it as she pulls the sheet over his face.
She gives him to the sea. To his father. To freedom.
III
She stubbornly refuses his offer, tells him that she doesn’t want to leave. She’s not entirely sure why. Perhaps she believes that staying here would bring a miracle, bring back her son. Her husband. The life she thinks she’s lost.
“What’s left for you here, Lizzie?” he asks. She tells him that she’s grown attached to the island, her small house. He looks at her skeptically.
“Last time I checked,” he says, “my fierce pirate lady wasn’t set to settle down.” She knows he’s right, but chooses to focus on the ownership of said ‘fierce pirate lady’.
“Your pirate lady?” she asks raising an eyebrow.
“Slip of the tongue,” he says dismissively, pushing it away with a wave of his hands. “‘Sides, you’re missing the point, love.”
She gives him a pointed look. He ignores it.
“There’s no cage around you, Elizabeth.”
She stares at him. Her father said those same words, once. In a dream. She had cried, seeking her father’s guidance, his love and approval more than anything. And then he had come, pushing her chin up and wiping her tears away. He told her he was proud of her, that he would always love her. She was about to protest, saying that she had never been what he had expected from his daughter. But he had cut her off, telling her that there was no cage around her but the one she made for herself. She foolishly wonders if Jack can read her thoughts.
She comes to the conclusion that he probably can.
IV
He leaves. Much to her disappointment. She knows it was coming, but she had hoped, however unrealistically, that he may have been inclined to stay.
She starts questioning her decision not to leave with him. He had tried to convince her over the course of a week, with promises of adventures and treasure (some of this treasure, she suspected, had nothing whatsoever to do with riches), and she had come very close to breaking, almost gave into him. Almost.
But almost is never good enough. She stays and he leaves, and she doesn’t know when, or if, he will return. She misses him.
She misses him, more than she ever expected she would. She had woken in the early morning, to find sheets that had long since lost his warmth, his scent on the pillow the only remaining sign that he had ever been there. She had searched the house for him, called his name, in some small hope that he may come into view around a corner saying softly, “Here, love. I’m right here.”
He didn’t. And she is left achingly alone, wondering what kept her tethered here, when all she wants is to be out there, with him.
V
She is burning, her dreams plagued with fever. She cries out desperately for Will, seeing his death play over in her mind. It never seems to cease.
The blade plunges into his heart, his face contorts into one of terrible agony, and he writhes as the blade twists inside his ribcage, shredding his heart to pieces. The scarlet stain spreads over his shirt and he becomes still, much too still. “No,” she hears herself whisper.
“No!” she screams out loud, thrashing about and tangling herself in the bed clothes, not asleep but not really awake, either. And suddenly she feels herself being gathered into someone’s strong arms. She stills almost immediately, hot tears pouring out of her eyes as she looks up. “Will…” she says quietly, her voice strained from disuse.
He gently pushes her hair out of her face, lays her back into bed. He watches her worriedly. She tries to sit up again, but he pushes her back down. “Jack,” she says, recognition dawning in her fevered eyes.
“Shh.” He runs his fingers over her forehead, and she feels the coolness of rings against her scalding flesh.
“You came back,” she whispers as her eyelids drop, feeling much too heavy to hold open.
“Yes,” he says quietly.
“I love you,” she says.
“I know,” he says, taking her hand in his. She feels his lips brush the tops of her fingers as she falls back into a quiet slumber.