Fic: Birdsong (PotC:AWE, J/E, PG)
Warning: this contains major spoilers for Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End. Now that you're warned, let's party. Er, be plagued with a terrible mix of uncertain feeling, rampant inaccurate speculation and expressive lunancy, as is the hallmark of my fiction. This is pure speculation as to the "spoiler" ending, as my tickets for AWE are stamped for 8pm today, and not yesterday, as I begged my good fairies. Bad fairies. Whatever.
Birdsong. Rated PG for language and themes; J/E pretty much, or not, as you see fit.
There are a million things that she might say.
She births the child on the shore, in darkness; and though his father was present for the making, she is utterly alone.
When the bleeding stops, staunched with her own dress, she wraps him in her shirt and holds him, looking out across the water. She is so small, her new child even smaller, against the stars; against every sky that stretches out around them, against the span of nine-years-three-months-eight-days.
Robin. Not any name of her father’s kin, nor her mother’s, nor Will’s- that she can be sure of. It brings familiarity of another kind- swift wings cutting sharp on the wind; dark eyes, and bright. She dreamed of birds the night he was conceived, and so she names him for the air.
He hardly cries.
He’s eight months old, and growing fat, when sails appear on the horizon. She’s got her baby slung against her hip in a shawl, picking breadfruit, singing to him as he dozes in the warmth of the afternoon. Her mouth is sticky with the juice. The dark outline is a shimmer of a ship at first, a ghost of her eyelashes, until it clears.
“Will,” she whispers, daring to hope. She begged him when they parted, come near, give me a sign. And now a faithful husband, he’s done just that- perhaps he’ll come close enough to wave, to run up her colors; maybe even close enough to see the baby’s- she stops, stands with her feet already in the water.
The sails are black.
Her mouth seems to fill with bitterness, and she turns her face away. The steady lap of waves rocks her ankles, leaving salty trails. The ship sails aimlessly into the calm around the island, never too close; there’s no sign of the captain and barely the movement of crew. The anchor’s thrown down. It seems to settle against the horizon, moving ever so slightly as she is, flying Elizabeth’s colors- the great gold dragon in a wash of red. If Jack’s wearing her flag to placate her, to draw her out, it won’t work. She’s not a king any longer. She turns for the house, and doesn’t look back until nightfall.
The sails have disappeared.
In the years that follow, their ritual repeats. He sails around her island and she pointedly ignores him. Jack does her the courtesy of staying aboard, not tempting her or inciting her or risking her sharp tongue; but of course, she thinks, it might be laziness as well. On the fifth year she grows impatient, waiting for him; and when the sails appear she wishes them away to the edge of the earth, and off it besides for good measure.
But she’s not the only one at the tide line.
“Mama,” he says, skipping her heart like a stone, “whose ship is that ?”
There are a million things that she might say. Her son is as drawn to the sea as she was herself; swimming under her careful eye like an eel in the shallows, building miniature stick rafts and begging for sails stitched out of last year’s trousers. She should have seen him watching, should have known. Robin’s eyes are fixed on the dark billows and the sleekness of the hull; his round little face, so distant and alone, but for the woman who keeps him like a secret.
She sorrows for him, for the fairy-tale that fills the place of father in his life. She’s told him the story so many times that it’s ragged at the edges of her voice. She has her memories, of hand in hand and skin on skin; memories of kindness and strength, the low murmur of his voice layering with hers in the dark. Her son has an echo of memories, and the burden of her grief.
“That ship ?” she says, idly. She hears herself speak, but doesn’t believe it, doesn’t know the words before they’re out, and done forever. She can give him this- this one thing. “That ship, dearest, belongs to your father.”
His joyful leap is almost enough to lift the heaviness from her heart; his laughter haunts her sleep.
“When will he come home ?” he asks, bird-bright, flashing around her as he speaks. Two years he’s watched with her now, waving and dancing at the distant ship, arms wide, pennants of spare handkerchiefs in each hand. A great gun booms a reply into the distance as they retreat, and she winces against the sound- the finality of it. It can't be Jack, no, he'd not stoop to indulge a child's fancy; Gibbs, then, unconsciously complicit now in her personal mutiny. Elizabeth stands like a stone, hoping Robin’s frantic goodbye won’t be mistaken for her own; but Jack’s eyes are unerring- the ship does not turn. He does not come ashore.
“It’ll be years, my robin.”
“Years and years ?” he asks again, shading his sight with both hands. “Or only years ?”
“Only years, now.” Robin will be taller, and the lines around her eyes deeper, when her husband returns.
“I should make him something,” he says cryptically, and runs back over the low hills to the house, kicking up a flurry of sand. She smiles in his direction. His enthusiasm is at times overwhelming.
They eat on the shore, since Robin asks, with a blanket for their picnic and thick slabs of salt pork on their bread. His minor rituals, in the wake of the larger one, become more serious every year; as do the decorations. “We should make a great garland of leaves next year, and hang it all around the house. He’ll see that, won’t he ?”
“He might.”
“Does he love me ?” he asks suddenly, staring down at his hands, and the bread, with fat tears welling in his eyes. She feels ashamed, and the lie deepens.
“He adores you, Robin.” She pulls her son close, wipes his eyes on her sleeve, lets her chin rest in his sunny, messy hair. “Your father loves you so. He comes every year to see you, to see how tall you’ve grown. He can’t come to us- you know that. But he comes as close as he can. He loves you, Robin.” She smiles at him, kisses his cheek. “And I love you.”
“We ought to pray,” he says, sniffling, “for good weather. For sailing. I’m awfully glad that he loves me.”
In that moment; the first moment, though there will be more; she hates the man she married.
When the evenings grow longer she sits by the fire, feeding it, watching him lick his fingers and try to catch a spark out of the air. Sometimes they lie side-by-side, whispering tales of adventure into the vast empty darkness until he fall asleep.
After such a morning she wakes, still rolled in her longcoat, though Robin is no longer sleeping solidly beside her.
"Little bird," she calls, shucking the coat and stretching out her limbs. "Little bird, little bird, where are you hiding ?" He doesn't answer, strangely- in the morning he's so full of games. He roams and climbs their narrow trees freely, as there's little on the island that could hurt him. She gathers their things and starts towards the house, anticipating his hunger, when a neat row of footprints makes her pause. They lead away from the house, ambling comfortably along the beach. She drops the coat and the little clogs and follows them.
She sees the ship in the distance and the footprints leading to the water's edge in nearly the same instant. "Robin !"
There's a shape struggling just past the shallows, nearly a hundred paces ahead. She knows how many, because she counts them in ragged, sobbing breaths as she runs. Faster than she's ever run before. She prays, a bare and scattered thought; God and Your Angels God and Your Angels.
She screams for him, her heart a bursting star. She knows she'll not make it, she'll watch as her baby is torn out to sea-
-and Jack staggers out of the surf, with her son in his arms.
Robin, cradled against her, is shivering.
"Thank you, Jack," she says softly, so softly that it almost doesn't catch; and he glances at her with a starling's tilted, inquisitive head. They sit apart in the sand, a little way from where she thumped her boy's chest until he struggled to life, spitting foul-smelling salt water into her lap. Jack lets them be.
"You've passed on your terrible habit of drowning," he says darkly, as Elizabeth rubs her son's arms and his back, warming the blood. She doesn't look at the man beside her, just strokes the golden hair and kisses the pale little face until Robin squirms in her arms; trying for a better look at Jack.
"Father," he chirps, rubbing the snotty tears away. She shushes him but he crawls out from her smothering and kneels before Jack, who continues to stare at Elizabeth. "I saw your ship ! Thank you for coming every year and for saving me. I'm sorry I tried to swim out-"
"You could've died," Elizabeth cuts in, more frightened than she means to be. "You could've died and left me all alone."
"I know," he says, with a child's simplicity. "I'm sorry. Father, how can you be on land ? Is it magic ? It is you, isn't it ? Mama said the curse-"
Elizabeth looks up. He's watching her, this dark-eyed man; with a word he can put aside her lies, he's reading that much on her face. This will be the day that it begins, the day her son loses his trust in this world- in her, in the man that helped her make him; her son with firefly eyes. She can't speak, can't stop what is going to happen any more than she could have raised a hand all these years, to beckon this good man closer.
"No curse," he says carefully, thoughtfully; she thinks almost kindly; "could keep a father from his son."
Robin falls into his arms, and Jack doesn't hesitate, but holds him close, gentle and quiet. The boy sniffles madly into the crook of his elbow. Jack reaches for her, still holding her son with one arm; holds out his empty hand in offering. She's been faithful, she's been lonely- she's stared into the ocean and seen nothing but blue, deathless grief. Never a sign and never a comfort, as rootless as a mermaid.
What is faith ? She finds, suddenly, that she doesn't know. She's kept to herself and her narrow bed, but she hasn't loved Will every minute as she might have. No, she's missed and adored him, she's hated him, she's forgotten the pressure of his kisses, she's longed for him, and longed for other things; closer and so more dangerous. She's been an apple since she saw the sails, ready to fall.
Her son is eight years old; she finds he is more than a promise, more than an anchor, needing more than the nourishment of her pride. And there in the snapping wind and lovely, unfettered sky; the man at her side is still flying her colors.
She finds Jack's hands are warm.
Birdsong. Rated PG for language and themes; J/E pretty much, or not, as you see fit.
There are a million things that she might say.
She births the child on the shore, in darkness; and though his father was present for the making, she is utterly alone.
When the bleeding stops, staunched with her own dress, she wraps him in her shirt and holds him, looking out across the water. She is so small, her new child even smaller, against the stars; against every sky that stretches out around them, against the span of nine-years-three-months-eight-days.
Robin. Not any name of her father’s kin, nor her mother’s, nor Will’s- that she can be sure of. It brings familiarity of another kind- swift wings cutting sharp on the wind; dark eyes, and bright. She dreamed of birds the night he was conceived, and so she names him for the air.
He hardly cries.
He’s eight months old, and growing fat, when sails appear on the horizon. She’s got her baby slung against her hip in a shawl, picking breadfruit, singing to him as he dozes in the warmth of the afternoon. Her mouth is sticky with the juice. The dark outline is a shimmer of a ship at first, a ghost of her eyelashes, until it clears.
“Will,” she whispers, daring to hope. She begged him when they parted, come near, give me a sign. And now a faithful husband, he’s done just that- perhaps he’ll come close enough to wave, to run up her colors; maybe even close enough to see the baby’s- she stops, stands with her feet already in the water.
The sails are black.
Her mouth seems to fill with bitterness, and she turns her face away. The steady lap of waves rocks her ankles, leaving salty trails. The ship sails aimlessly into the calm around the island, never too close; there’s no sign of the captain and barely the movement of crew. The anchor’s thrown down. It seems to settle against the horizon, moving ever so slightly as she is, flying Elizabeth’s colors- the great gold dragon in a wash of red. If Jack’s wearing her flag to placate her, to draw her out, it won’t work. She’s not a king any longer. She turns for the house, and doesn’t look back until nightfall.
The sails have disappeared.
In the years that follow, their ritual repeats. He sails around her island and she pointedly ignores him. Jack does her the courtesy of staying aboard, not tempting her or inciting her or risking her sharp tongue; but of course, she thinks, it might be laziness as well. On the fifth year she grows impatient, waiting for him; and when the sails appear she wishes them away to the edge of the earth, and off it besides for good measure.
But she’s not the only one at the tide line.
“Mama,” he says, skipping her heart like a stone, “whose ship is that ?”
There are a million things that she might say. Her son is as drawn to the sea as she was herself; swimming under her careful eye like an eel in the shallows, building miniature stick rafts and begging for sails stitched out of last year’s trousers. She should have seen him watching, should have known. Robin’s eyes are fixed on the dark billows and the sleekness of the hull; his round little face, so distant and alone, but for the woman who keeps him like a secret.
She sorrows for him, for the fairy-tale that fills the place of father in his life. She’s told him the story so many times that it’s ragged at the edges of her voice. She has her memories, of hand in hand and skin on skin; memories of kindness and strength, the low murmur of his voice layering with hers in the dark. Her son has an echo of memories, and the burden of her grief.
“That ship ?” she says, idly. She hears herself speak, but doesn’t believe it, doesn’t know the words before they’re out, and done forever. She can give him this- this one thing. “That ship, dearest, belongs to your father.”
His joyful leap is almost enough to lift the heaviness from her heart; his laughter haunts her sleep.
“When will he come home ?” he asks, bird-bright, flashing around her as he speaks. Two years he’s watched with her now, waving and dancing at the distant ship, arms wide, pennants of spare handkerchiefs in each hand. A great gun booms a reply into the distance as they retreat, and she winces against the sound- the finality of it. It can't be Jack, no, he'd not stoop to indulge a child's fancy; Gibbs, then, unconsciously complicit now in her personal mutiny. Elizabeth stands like a stone, hoping Robin’s frantic goodbye won’t be mistaken for her own; but Jack’s eyes are unerring- the ship does not turn. He does not come ashore.
“It’ll be years, my robin.”
“Years and years ?” he asks again, shading his sight with both hands. “Or only years ?”
“Only years, now.” Robin will be taller, and the lines around her eyes deeper, when her husband returns.
“I should make him something,” he says cryptically, and runs back over the low hills to the house, kicking up a flurry of sand. She smiles in his direction. His enthusiasm is at times overwhelming.
They eat on the shore, since Robin asks, with a blanket for their picnic and thick slabs of salt pork on their bread. His minor rituals, in the wake of the larger one, become more serious every year; as do the decorations. “We should make a great garland of leaves next year, and hang it all around the house. He’ll see that, won’t he ?”
“He might.”
“Does he love me ?” he asks suddenly, staring down at his hands, and the bread, with fat tears welling in his eyes. She feels ashamed, and the lie deepens.
“He adores you, Robin.” She pulls her son close, wipes his eyes on her sleeve, lets her chin rest in his sunny, messy hair. “Your father loves you so. He comes every year to see you, to see how tall you’ve grown. He can’t come to us- you know that. But he comes as close as he can. He loves you, Robin.” She smiles at him, kisses his cheek. “And I love you.”
“We ought to pray,” he says, sniffling, “for good weather. For sailing. I’m awfully glad that he loves me.”
In that moment; the first moment, though there will be more; she hates the man she married.
When the evenings grow longer she sits by the fire, feeding it, watching him lick his fingers and try to catch a spark out of the air. Sometimes they lie side-by-side, whispering tales of adventure into the vast empty darkness until he fall asleep.
After such a morning she wakes, still rolled in her longcoat, though Robin is no longer sleeping solidly beside her.
"Little bird," she calls, shucking the coat and stretching out her limbs. "Little bird, little bird, where are you hiding ?" He doesn't answer, strangely- in the morning he's so full of games. He roams and climbs their narrow trees freely, as there's little on the island that could hurt him. She gathers their things and starts towards the house, anticipating his hunger, when a neat row of footprints makes her pause. They lead away from the house, ambling comfortably along the beach. She drops the coat and the little clogs and follows them.
She sees the ship in the distance and the footprints leading to the water's edge in nearly the same instant. "Robin !"
There's a shape struggling just past the shallows, nearly a hundred paces ahead. She knows how many, because she counts them in ragged, sobbing breaths as she runs. Faster than she's ever run before. She prays, a bare and scattered thought; God and Your Angels God and Your Angels.
She screams for him, her heart a bursting star. She knows she'll not make it, she'll watch as her baby is torn out to sea-
-and Jack staggers out of the surf, with her son in his arms.
Robin, cradled against her, is shivering.
"Thank you, Jack," she says softly, so softly that it almost doesn't catch; and he glances at her with a starling's tilted, inquisitive head. They sit apart in the sand, a little way from where she thumped her boy's chest until he struggled to life, spitting foul-smelling salt water into her lap. Jack lets them be.
"You've passed on your terrible habit of drowning," he says darkly, as Elizabeth rubs her son's arms and his back, warming the blood. She doesn't look at the man beside her, just strokes the golden hair and kisses the pale little face until Robin squirms in her arms; trying for a better look at Jack.
"Father," he chirps, rubbing the snotty tears away. She shushes him but he crawls out from her smothering and kneels before Jack, who continues to stare at Elizabeth. "I saw your ship ! Thank you for coming every year and for saving me. I'm sorry I tried to swim out-"
"You could've died," Elizabeth cuts in, more frightened than she means to be. "You could've died and left me all alone."
"I know," he says, with a child's simplicity. "I'm sorry. Father, how can you be on land ? Is it magic ? It is you, isn't it ? Mama said the curse-"
Elizabeth looks up. He's watching her, this dark-eyed man; with a word he can put aside her lies, he's reading that much on her face. This will be the day that it begins, the day her son loses his trust in this world- in her, in the man that helped her make him; her son with firefly eyes. She can't speak, can't stop what is going to happen any more than she could have raised a hand all these years, to beckon this good man closer.
"No curse," he says carefully, thoughtfully; she thinks almost kindly; "could keep a father from his son."
Robin falls into his arms, and Jack doesn't hesitate, but holds him close, gentle and quiet. The boy sniffles madly into the crook of his elbow. Jack reaches for her, still holding her son with one arm; holds out his empty hand in offering. She's been faithful, she's been lonely- she's stared into the ocean and seen nothing but blue, deathless grief. Never a sign and never a comfort, as rootless as a mermaid.
What is faith ? She finds, suddenly, that she doesn't know. She's kept to herself and her narrow bed, but she hasn't loved Will every minute as she might have. No, she's missed and adored him, she's hated him, she's forgotten the pressure of his kisses, she's longed for him, and longed for other things; closer and so more dangerous. She's been an apple since she saw the sails, ready to fall.
Her son is eight years old; she finds he is more than a promise, more than an anchor, needing more than the nourishment of her pride. And there in the snapping wind and lovely, unfettered sky; the man at her side is still flying her colors.
She finds Jack's hands are warm.