LAS Entry--Prompt 2--Land of the Dead
Title: Land of the Dead
Rating: PG13
Characters: Beckett, Calypso, (Davy Jones and Will Turner briefly referenced)
Summary: Beckett's fate after his death...
Warnings: Character Death, darkness
Author's note: Time always seems to escape me when I have a deadline... :(
He had heard tales, whispered by the men of Jones's crew, that their souls were bound to the Dutchman by an oath sworn at the hour of their death, pledging their service in exchange for cheating death. 100 years paid in blood to forestall final judgment.
But, he knew it was too late for him. Even if he weren't so certain he was already dead, beyond the reach of mystical promises made to a devil, he had no doubt that Turner would never extend such an offer to him.
So instead, he sat--at least, it seemed like he was sitting--in the vast darkness. Nothing was discernable in the impenetrable black nothingness--not even his fingers before his own face. As he waved them uselessly, he realized he felt no breeze, could hear no sound. It was absolutely still, silent, dark, and terrifying.
In the distance--or what he assumed to be distant; he could not be sure--he heard the faintest whisper of sound. A drumbeat tapping out a steady rhythm. A question formed on his lips, but before he could speak, a lilting voice that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere answered him.
"It is your life, Cutler Beckett. The last vestiges of your mortality beating away."
And then he saw her. She seemed to glow with her own light that only served to illuminate her and none of the darkness around her, her tattered skirts floating in a breeze he could not feel. He recognized her face as the face of a slave girl on one of his ships--one who had offered him the seas in exchange for her freedom. He saw her lips curl into a smile. "That offer has long expired, Cutler Beckett. But you see me now. You did not see me then."
With each word she spoke, the drumming seemed to grow louder, to draw closer. He fought to speak, but realized he had no voice, could only feel something like an empty strain in his throat.
"You have nothing to say worth hearing," she whispered, floating closer to him. "All you have is questions--where, why, how--and none of them matter now."
He struggled to fight the panic that swelled within him as her lips curled back into a smile, her head tilting slightly as her eyes swept over him. He was sure he was being assessed, judged, and his inability to speak, to demand her to stop left him impotent and nearly terrified.
"You is a bad man." She was closer, her lips nearly pressed against his ear as she hissed at him--close enough he should have felt her breath, he thought, but there was nothing. Only her spiteful voice and ethereal glow. "You have so much hatred in your heart."
The drumming was louder now, oppressive, the consistent pounding echoing in his mind, almost drowning out her words. He wanted to clasp his hands over his ears, beg her to make it stop, but he could not.
"And now . . . you is nothing. Welcome to the land of the dead, Cutler Beckett."
And the drum stopped and there was only silence.