[POTC fic series] - SAILING IN SAMSARA, C.1 - "Saraswati and the Swan" - rated R
Title: “Saraswati and the Swan”
Series: Sailing in Samsara (1/1 - thus far)
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Spoilers: Post (my hypothetical) AWE
Pairing: Jack/Elizabeth, Saraswati (OC)
Rating: R
Word Count: 5,550
Summary: The first chapter of a longer work that will address Jack’s backstory and the role of family in his life. Jack and Lizzie set anchor in Surat, India, and bring back a bit of a surprise.
Disclaimer: I don't own POTC or any of the people in it. They belong to Disney. Would that I was so rich.
Note on this work: This story features many cultural references and makes use of several quirks of Indian English. Please refer to the Glossary and Media Guide for explanations, translations, and examples or the dance styles/music styles referenced within. The “*” indicates passages noted and discussed in the guide. (And I haven't finished it yet. Please ask if you have questions. Feeling a bit shameful, but I needed to take a break.) http://writing-samsara.livejournal.com/tag/the+glossary+and+media+guide
Many thanks to my superstar beta,
Feedback is fabulous!
Sailing in Samsara: Saraswati and the Swan*
The fact that Elizabeth disliked her rather naturally presented problems enough. The fact that she was Jack’s younger sister, and that they dined alone, was proving potentially murderous. Jack, scoundrel to his core, had conveniently retreated above deck to assume the dog watches, leaving Elizabeth to face Sara by her onesies. Inhaling in slow lungfuls, she felt stunningly corseted despite her loose linens. Bloody Jack, she thought, resisting the urge to fan herself by clenching her fists.
She studied Sara as she ate, watched the older woman dip her fingers neatly into the bowl of spiced fish and rice, its reds and yellows tantalizing in comparison to Liz’s own grayish paste. Ayub had prepared the dish to the lady’s exacting specifications, had buzzed about the galley gathering ingredients with more flare than she’d ever witnessed in him; generally, his stance was as silent as his tongue. The mute cook and the illustrious sister. If Elizabeth squinted, she could almost fancy an ember between the two. Almost.
Scooping up a hunk of what she assumed was meat, Elizabeth catalogued what she knew of her opponent. Jack had spoken of her rarely and always half in riddle. The mounting result was that Elizabeth knew few facts but could deduct much from the woman’s actions - and Jack’s rather infuriating orbit around them.
Ticking off observations on her left hand, Elizabeth paid little attention to Sara’s lifted gaze. Treacherous, chameleon eyes. Gray, blue, green - they held nothing of Jack’s chocolate warmth, shifting color in tides, drawing hues from the surfaces surrounding her. Eyes rimmed in precise kohl, tidier than Jack’s slap-dash application.
One: Sara disapproved of anything unlike herself, and thus her tense appraisal of Elizabeth illuminated a crucial lack of empathy. Two: She was a practiced illusionist, perhaps more so than her brother and his self-spun legends. Often, Sara feigned a certain land-bound wobble, the crew and her brother rushing to her aid at the slightest quiver. But Elizabeth sensed the artifice, being woman enough to understand though not so slippery as to employ the trick. She had glimpsed Sara’s nimble feet preventing tumbles on several occasions.
And, Elizabeth thought, flexing her index finger, she’s never in the way of anything. Not like most women unaccustomed to ships.
Three: She disliked non-Indians in general, the British in specific. Four: She played coyly at sadness, but she was a survivor. Elizabeth admitted grudgingly that the former courtesan steered men as aptly as Jack guided the Pearl. Sara’s clipped English savored of meticulous misdirection, allowing her to speak often but articulate little, a puff of smoke to mirrors. Five: She constructed her appearance carefully, color and pattern and silhouette fashioned with obvious intent. Of all her observations, this assessment of Sara’s image troubled Elizabeth most. The woman had fashioned something Lizzie could not place, something in the tunics she donned, in the lace patterns dyed on her hands, in her vermillion-powdered part and in that exacting, gold-woven braid dangling nearly to her knees. But mostly it was the unblinking eye, red and furious between Sara’s brows - that mark Jack had called “pottu” - that scraped at Elizabeth in warning. “A third eye,” he’d told her. A married woman’s privilege. And though she’d seen plenty such marks in distant ports, instinct dictated that Sara’s bore hidden connotations.
And there were other, more bothersome epiphanies.
Elizabeth deduced, for example, that Sara resented Jack in assorted layers. Similarly, she reasoned that Sara knew of her betrayal at the mast, knew that she’d fed him to curling terror with a twinkle in her eye and a stone in her chest. Knew she was the keystone in the structure of his death and rebirth.
And most stunningly, Elizabeth could not shake the sense that Sara had been waiting for them in that brothel, that she’d woven something binding and intricate.
These truths she acknowledged because she saw them in Jack’s eyes, in that subtle twitch of his right hand whenever Sara called him “Thambi*.” Elizabeth remembered the dull wash of his eyes when he’d explained the meaning to her - “Younger brother,” he’d said gruffly - and she’d felt drawn to her sword. When she’d pressed Jack for an explanation - he was, afterall, the older brother - she had glimpsed a hint of fire shuttered beneath his frosty reply. “Leave it go, Lizzie,” he’d said. “Old tales too dull to merit the telling.” And then he’d patted the bed and waggled his brows, all theater and motion again. “Come now, my Doom, my sweet, my comely Terror, and ‘ave a tangle with old Jack. Me sister is the furthest lady from my mind.”
But they’d only slept, Jack leaden and still in the crook of her arm.
Plucky wench, that sister of his.
Elizabeth spooned another morsel of gruel into her mouth, her belly constricting as it slithered down her throat. The scent of curry seduced her in tendrils, her stomach growling. She fixed her gaze on Sara’s plate, on the slender fingers rolling rice balls in delicate, plucking motions. Only a few grains clung to the tips, and Elizabeth felt a sudden pang of envy that her own ship-worn hands had been stripped of fragility, her joints swollen and sun-dried.
She’s a cobra, Elizabeth thought. She dances like she’s charmed, but she’s coiled and flaring. Remembering the snake handlers of some distant bazaar, Elizabeth wished for a flute and a basket. Couldn’t play it, but I could hit her with it.
Sara’s head flicked up and she assessed Elizabeth with darting eyes. Remembering the look Jack had flashed before departing for his watch - something teetering on the edges of pleading - Elizabeth resolved to attempt an enchantment. She settled her spoon, smoothed her crinkled vest, downed a healthy swallow of rum and began the arduous process of polite conversation.
“So, Sara, you must speak many different languages, growing up in such a diverse port town.”
“Nearly seven.”
“How lovely! And you’ve learned them over the years by moving about?”
“Oof!*, no, no I did not become useful only after leaving my mother’s home. No -” clucking her tongue, Sara paused to collect words, her clean hand tapping rhythm into tabletop. “Ah, yes-yes*. Our Ammah* was- accha*, how is it said -a lady of station. We had little luxury such as yourself, but prodigious culture.” She laid her arm to rest with a click of bangles and waited for Elizabeth to meet the challenge. Restraint set Lizzie’s left eye to twitching, but she did not answer it.
“You must have learned at a very young age, then. Which seven do you speak, exactly?”
“It is not only me that speaks so, kya*? Raj - ah, sorry-sorry, your Captain-wallah* - speaks more languages than I, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Jack has quite the proficiency with language. It must be lovely to be able to converse with such a great many people. You must keep such varied company. I have not had the particular occasion to mingle with such acquaintances as yourself.” The sting of her words snapped across Sara’s face in brief shadows. Seeing the slender lift of eyebrow, Elizabeth’s very teeth tingled in triumph, as quenched as if she had slashed the woman with her sword rather than her wit. Saying a silent prayer that the blade of her dormant drawing-room tongue remained sharp, she returned to her meal and swallowed a tepid lump with some effort.
“Not so varied as my brother -until your arrival it would seem - yani*, Raj is so-so taken care of now. Yes, you have taken such drastic care of him.”
Elizabeth felt the blow softly, a thump at the base of her skull. Confirmation at last, she thought, straining to remain brisk and undisturbed. She knows I’ve killed him. And then the more niggling questions, varnishing Elizabeth in a glossy, slippery kind of mistrust: How does she know? Why does she know? And just what is that bloody - that lady - planning to do with it?
~
Jack leaned into the wheel, relishing the rush of salt-breeze, and made a minor adjustment to the ship’s course. He stood loose-handed, allowing the Pearl her bit of play, content to submit in measures to the swaying ocean.
“Aye, me sweet, you dance with him all you want tonight. I’ll keep you honest by-and-by.”
As if thanking him, the ship settled in creaks against the waves, sails sighing in the night air, and Jack ran his hands across her spokes in tender lengths. Dusk’s last blush smoldered where sky met water, the blanket of night supple and sparkling. Cotton lit the last of the lanterns, pausing abaft the mizzenmast to pat his parrot on the head before lumbering towards the stern. Aloft, Marty paced the masthead, and Jack offered silent thanks that neither man was given to raucousness. Below deck the crew sang bawdily, lending the boards beneath his feet a pleasant hum.
“Yes me darlin’, I know. Pains somethin’ brilliant, doesn’t it?” Humming a bit of Lizzie’s pirate ballad - and feeling for all the world like a really fresh egg - Jack surveyed the deck and enjoyed the warm-bellied satisfaction of a man in precisely the right place at precisely the right moment. Twilight had always been his favorite time aboard ship. That last sizzle of day, that cool shift to indigo when the watch bell tolled and the crew slipped below - these were the moments were Jack felt both fevered freedom and soft stillness, the whole of the world listing towards sleep except he and his Pearl. His status as captain rarely afforded him the opportunity to enjoy the dog watches, thus he snatched those shifts greedily when fortune afforded.
Blessedly free of distraction, his mind wandered to his sister and Elizabeth. Hopefully they hadn’t come to blows yet, although knowing his Doom they were likely closer than not. He knew she’d understood the flash of his eyes. Come ‘round, Bess, and prove me proud. Gentle, gentle, me girl. Much of their communication was unspoken now, cultivated over the years through glances across deck, and so perhaps she was making a valiant go at it. She’d nodded just barely, motion enough to remind Jack what a perfect, already-forgiven rogue he was.
Of course, if he allowed himself objectivity, he knew it was Saraswati that threatened their fragile peace. His little sister had always been a woman of strong opinion, and now she appeared inclined to a particular bitterness that troubled him. The girl Jack remembered, carefree and unorthodox, playing in the mud with her son, had vanished. Sara was something different; her peculiar insistence that she be called by the anglicized version of her name tugged at Jack as much as her uncharacteristically ornate salwars*. The woman that dined with Elizabeth seemed far too refined, far too bound and cunning for his taste.
Indeed, much of his sister’s arrival felt askew somehow, and Jack puzzled over the events surrounding her appearance, the ballet of ship and sea urging his mind into memory.
“Come now, Bess. Don’t be so prickly about this. Just think of all the cultural whatnots and all those exotic dances you’ll never see anywhere else.” To punctuate the sentiment, Jack twirled around sloppily, a drunken dervish to the untrained eye. Elizabeth folded her arms and scowled, unconvinced. Winking at her, he waved his hands in the air, wrists bent, and danced a little circle around her.
“Jack, if you think for one second that I’m to be persuaded by that -” she paused, gesturing to his now flailing arms, “- whatever it is your doing- and the ravings of some random, half-mad fruit vendor, well then you’ve got a lot of -”
“He wasn’t half mad. Inebriated, maybe. And scrumptious jackfruit. You know, Lizzie, it’s extremely difficult to find decent quality jackfruit in these little port towns. Sticky buggers, though. In any case, he seemed perfectly sane - except that bit about the elephant - that was, well, what it was, was -”
“Have you ever noticed how you’re always interrupting me?”
“I do not.”
“Yes you do. You just did.”
“You’re not making any sense, Lizzie. Are you feeling well?” Before she could answer, his arm snaked around her shoulder and he began leading her down the dock. “Tell you what, I hear tell of an excellent little place that’ll cheer you right up. Now if you’ll just follow me.”
“Jack!” Elizabeth halted mid-step, effectively causing him to trip over his own feet and teeter a few paces before straightening into his stately “captain” stance. He began to answer but stopped when he saw her scowl, arms akimbo and foot tapping. Mouth puckered, he waited for the tirade.
“Jack, I am not, under any circumstance, for any reason, by any means, going to a brothel with you to ogle some - some dancing girls that a filthy, senile, toothless, and bloody intoxicated old man recommended to you.”
Several hours later Elizabeth, ruffled and flushed, emerged from the Captain’s cabin and stepped onto the docks lightly, disguise in place and a regally attired Jack Sparrow at her side. He wore ivory, brocade pajamas, hair bound in a saffron turban, paisley shawl folded and draped across his shoulders. Every finger was ringed in gold and several necklaces dangled from his neck, flashing red and green as their gems caught the light, and his beard hung long and unbraided like a proper nawab. Elizabeth, brows darkened with kohl and hair wound in her own black scarf, completed the picture as his dutiful, starkly unadorned servant, wrinkled black kurta*. Leaning towards him and straightening a lopsided chain, she whispered conspiratorially, “I really don’t see why we can’t wear our own clothes, Jack.”
“Because these places don’t generally admit foreigners, that’s why. Besides, it’s comfortable enough, isn’t it?”
“My head feels two sizes too big.”
“Can’t help that, love. You know I’ve got -”
“Don’t even start with me, Jack. I don’t know why I let you talk me into this. That trick isn’t going to work every time, you know.”
“Aye, aye, Pirate Miss, but you’re forgetting one important fact.”
“I know, I know. You’re Captain Jack Sparrow.”
“Are you implying that I’ve become predictable, Miss Swann?”
An arched brow offered his only answer.
Gibbs, clutching a coconut husk and smelling strongly of rum, startled Jack out of his reverie by bellowing, “I’ll take ‘er for ye, Captain.” Leaning in, he added in hushed tones, “And ye may want to check on the ladies, by-and-by. Terrible loud uproar, and Marty seems to think he ‘eard glasses breaking. Awful bad luck having two women aboard.”
“Gibbs, you ever notice that everything’s unlucky to you lately?”
“Just keepin’ a weather eye for ye, Captain. Females be the scourge of the sea.”
“I’ll have to convey that to Miss Swann, then.” Jack curled a smile as shades of horror crossed Gibbs’ face while he contemplated the idea.
“No, no. No need there.”
“Right. Thank you, Mr. Gibbs - and let ‘er easy tonight. She wants to ride a bit.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Approaching the cabin, Jack was stunned to actually hear a ruckus as described. Ear to the door, he divided from the general din something like Sara’s raised voice and a banshee’s howl that only his Bess could produce. Hopping back briskly, he twirled the ends of his mustache and pondered the most opportune course of action.
Jack considered entering with sword drawn but, remembering the specific females inside, he settled on palming Gibbs’ coconut, much to his first mate’s chagrin. He gathered that if he met with the worst case scenario - Lizzie beating the living lights from his sister or vice versa - he could at least crack her over the head. Tossing an “I’m Captain Jack Sparrow, mate,” look over his shoulder, he sucked in his breath, shook out his arms, and raised the shell, ready.
However, upon sliding through the door, Jack was treated to a view wholly different from the scene he’d expected. In fact, he nearly dropped the coconut. There was Sara, swaying in her chair, loud mouthed and half chuckling in mid-story. And Elizabeth - Elizabeth practically roared.
“So there he is, covered in soot, in Mrs. Rajasingham’s choli* - and Vijay standing there yelling, ‘Send it across, send it across!’ I swear, Lalit Varma didn’t touch a mango for weeks! Raj took a tight slap* for that one.” Smacking the table, one arm hugging her belly, Elizabeth doubled over in laughter, tears rolling down her cheeks. Jack could have sworn she snorted. Winding down, she sighed heavily and poured another shot - of what looked to be his best bottle of rum, no less - for herself and Sara. Lizzie tipped back in her chair, wiping her eyes.
“Alright, I’ve got a really good one. So Jack and I are stranded on this island -”
He cleared his throat, and both of the women snapped their heads towards him, Elizabeth tilting and nearly tumbling from her perch.
“Jack!”
“Raj!”
Both the women turned in unison and burst into giggles. Closing his still-open mouth, he leaned against the door frame, crossed his arms, and struck the stern pose of a father catching two wayward children in the liquor closet. The coconut, however, had different plans. Slanting out of Jack’s hand it clattered to the floor, slopping milk across his coat and sending him nearly out of his skin. He flapped about for a moment, kicking the pod and cursing fruit in general, recovering from his tantrum only when he caught a glimpse of the girls grinning to their ears. Saraswati stood first, staggering towards Jack with large, rounded strides.
“Aiyaiyo*, Thambi! Shirtings and suitings* all gone awry! Here, let me tidy this mess for you.” Removing the long scarf draped across her shoulders, she dabbed at his coat in ineffectual pats. The absurdity of his generally taciturn little sister, three sheets to the wind and slurring, wiping at his tatty coat with her fine silk dupatta* while his lover sat at the table, mesmerized by her own flexing and unflexing hands, did not escape him.
“Yes, yes, Sara. Thank you. Time to sit down now.” Grabbing her shoulders, he stopped her floundering attempt at kindness and led her to the table, helping her to plop inelegantly into her chair with an “oh foe!*” and a “it’s spin-spinning”.
“Oh yes, everything turns, and turns, and turns in circles,” Elizabeth proclaimed, beaming as though she’d unfolded a great secret. Jack lifted an eyebrow and shot her the “you’re really not helping, darling,” look, and she huffed dramatically but remained silent, pout firmly in place, elbows tented on the table with her chin in her hands.
“Oh, for Brahma’s sake, stop the rocking, Raj!” Much to Jack’s horror, his sister’s generally golden complexion was an actual, woozy shade of olive. She laid her head on the table, mouth open and arms splayed, and commenced to groaning.
“Can’t really stop the rocking, luv. This is a boat, afterall.”
“Ship, Jack. This is a ship.” Elizabeth corrected with a smirking slur.
“Yes, I know it’s a ship, me love. Thank you for the fascinating lesson in semantics. Care to help me here?”
“Oh, not at all,” Elizabeth replied perkily. “Just let me get my boots.”
Jack didn’t bother to remind her that she was wearing her boots. When she slid out of her seat and to the deck with a thud - giggling all the way - he simply shook his head, muttered something about “blasted women”, and helped his sister - warbling an old song about Krishna - to her feet, out the door, and to the rail in time to expel a prodigious amount of curry and rum.
~
Elizabeth stretched languidly across the bed, waiting for Jack to return. She traced a lazy finger through the sheets, following the shifting lines of light carved by the last candle flickering on the table. Feeling velvet with rum, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to float into memory. She summoned the images of that night in Surat, that night that began the whole mess and that led to her current lonely sprawl in captain’s bed, not-quite-drunk-enough, waiting impatiently for the return of Jack and his rough hands.
Though she’d protested visiting the brothel on the principle that the man who’d recommended it had been leering and sloppy drunk, Elizabeth admitted somewhat grudgingly that the sights of Surat offered a wealth of diversions. Nothing like Port Royal’s sleepy yawn at dusk. The streets buzzed with what seemed to Elizabeth to be a hundred languages, staggering sailors mingling with British officers mixing with the colorful locals. Jack had hired a foot-coach, reminding her that royalty such as himself didn’t walk about in the grime of common folk, and so they bumped along slowly, observing but not entering the play. He’s having far too much fun with this, she thought, watching him converse with the driver in lively rushes.
Sanjay, the driver, paused now and then to point to some stall or other. Strange fruits and flowers dangled bauble-like, swaying in the breeze. They turned a corner sharply, the curtain of odors - chili powder, underarms, day-old meats - lifting, the scents around the bend earthen and reminiscent of hay. Red, paper flags hung across the lane, tied from hut to hut, forcing Elizabeth to duck a few times where they sagged. She longed to know their significance, and filed the question away for when she wasn’t Jack’s mute, ostensibly Indian sidekick.
A painted elephant ambled down the road, led by the tap-tapping of its master’s stick, tusks singed at their tips and red with dirt. Ochre and blue swirls bulged as the beast walked, pigment peeling in patches to reveal its leather hide. Bellowing, it twisted its painted trunk skyward. Elizabeth resisted the urge to gawk and grab Jack’s arm.
Jack turned to her, winking. “Quite a tusker, that one - isn’t it, boy? Must have been an impressive mar-ri-age indeed.” He motioned to the streamers overhead.
She nodded with a broad smile.
They traveled for some time, Sanjay chattering, Jack fidgeting, and Elizabeth soaking up the many sounds and scents with heroic restraint. After what felt like hours, Jack nudged her and tipped his head to the left, indicating their arrival.
The brothel resembled no whorehouse Elizabeth had ever seen. She fancied it more of a palace with its tall iron gates and massive façade cut into peaked arches. A large, octagonal fountain trickled silver in slow streams, the water reflecting torchlight and pooling in the petals of floating lotuses. Elizabeth caught the thick scent of jasmine and the frantic sound of music buoyed in the breeze, winding and percussive.
Their rickshaw pulled around the fountain, and Jack paid Sanjay a handful of silver coins - more, she knew, than he’d asked - and dismounted with feline grace. The men exchanged slight bows, hands tented, Elizabeth following suit. Mounting the steps in slow strides, her eyes drifted from one splendor to another: the oil lamps lining the stairs, belled and blossom-like; the garlands of orange flowers -“Marigolds,” Jack whispered, leaning in - and the tiles beneath her feet, turquoise and shell and fitted in intricate patterns.
If she wasn’t a mute, she would have marveled. Instead, she settled for slack-mouthed awe.
A plump woman wound in layers of jade silk met them at the entrance, bowing to Jack with a hand cupped towards her lips and nodding at Elizabeth.
“Captain-Master, we’ve been expecting you. Welcome, welcome.” Elizabeth tossed Jack a dirty look that he pointedly ignored. He and the woman continued chatting for some time in yet another language Elizabeth didn’t recognize, this one punctuated by a glottal roundness, and she realized with a furious twitch that they were bartering. If she wasn’t supposed to be his servant, she would have pinched him as a reminder that they had not come to purchase. The woman took her leave of Jack with a winning smile and disappeared behind a curtain of clinking beads.
Some minutes passed, and Elizabeth decided to chance a few words.
“What was all that about?”
“Guaranteed us a brilliant seat, luv. Now hush, she’s coming back.”
Reappearing with a bracelet of white flowers, the woman - Raesa-Aunty as she introduced herself- tied the strand around Jack’s wrist and parted the curtains, motioning for them to follow. She ushered them through a maze of arches and gilded hallways that opened into an enormous hall. Cobalt walls lacy with white mosaics stretched dizzyingly, the ceiling so distant as to appear shadowed and indistinct. There, beneath the columns, women twirled and pranced to the pulse of a strange music, rhythms similar to those she’d heard Jack strum on Ragetti’s little fiddle during his intoxicated concerts. Elizabeth felt squeezed, as though a fist clutched her heart. These are the sounds of his boyhood, she thought, and the sense of something woven, something sewing her to him made her pressed heart leap. Her fingers ached to touch him.
Crossing the mesh of carpets and dodging several dancers, they came to a heap of cushions tucked discreetly from view of most of the room, and Raesa-Aunty motioned for them to sit. After shouting something to several small girls carrying trays of food and drink, Elizabeth and Jack were left alone with an assortment of sweets, fruits, and a buttery drink that Jack referred to as “lassi.”
Passing her a sticky golden square, he leaned in and whispered, “Try it love. The gold leaf is edible. You’ll love it.”
She popped the treat into her mouth and was surprised by its delicate sweetness, metal frosting lending a pleasant crackle to the flowery smoothness. She lifted her brow inquisitively, and Jack informed her it was made with rose milk and orange blossom water. Her eyes were drawn to his mouth as he spoke, the heady taste of roses lingering on her tongue.
A loud clap sounded, and Elizabeth broke her stare, turning to see Raesa in the center of the room, addressing a hushed audience. Jack translated under his breath.
“Gentle men of gentler distinction, we have for you a most delicious delight. She -the very light of Jaipur - has traveled long nights to meet you here and dance the dance of desire for your esteemed pleasures. Born under auspiscious stars and heir to vast wealth, she parted from her royal life so that she might regale you with nimble -”
Breaking translation, Jack rolled his eyes and explained that these courtesans were always introduced with a mess of nonsense. Stroking his beard, he resumed his duties.
“- please welcome the stately jewel of Jaipur - Shrimati Lakshmi.”
Throughout the hall, servants lowered black shades to the lamps. Copper twilight descended.
“What’s going on, Jack?”
“Shhh, luv. Can’t have my mute servant running at the mouth, savvy? This should be good, though. This is the dancer Gupta bragged about.”
“You mean that drunken -”
“Mute. Mute, me darlin’. Means no talkie.” For added emphasis, he puppeted speech with his hand.
Mustering as much deadpan annoyance as possible, she returned her gaze to the center of the room. Like morning mists, a fluted, wooden tune rose vaporous and hazy, the dry hum of some stringed instrument providing contrast. A slim figure cut through the darkness on red-rimmed feet, presumably the fabled Lakshmi, and struck a twisted silhouette directly in front of Jack and Lizzie. Around the hall, lamps were slowly uncapped, and Elizabeth swallowed a gasp as the room bloomed into light, bathing the dancer in undulating flickers. Lakshmi was perhaps the loveliest woman Lizzie had ever seen. She was obviously more mature than the girls that had spun around the room previously, and there was a sharpness to the lines of her veiled face, something fragile and bird-like that tugged at Elizabeth peripherally.
Her costume refracted light, the mesh of beaded silk a prism. Bangles upon bangles clattered as she shifted. Eyes downcast, wrists turning in subtle circles, the woman began to sing.
“This is a mujra,” Jack explained. “Take too long to translate it, but it’s poetry meant to welcome us.”
Rapt, Elizabeth watched as the woman shifted sinuously, the scarf covering her face quivering to the ground. Her eyes snapped up, and Elizabeth drew a sharp breath. Lakshmi’s eyes sparkled, cold and moon-blue as her clothes, sharp against the caramel of her skin. Eyes like something crackled, like ice.
And they were frozen on Jack. Indeed, her whole body had paused mid-dance, and she simply stared, the expression on her face almost angry, taunting.
Turning to catch Jack’s reaction, she felt a pang when she saw he returned the gaze, eyes fixed and unblinking. The woman stopped singing, turned, and addressed the musicians playing to their left. Raesa ran across the room to Lakshmi and argued in low tones before returning, red-faced, to the center of the hall to address the crowd.
“Shrimati wishes to perform a special dance - the Bharat Natyam of our southern cousins - for our most esteemed guest, Captain-Master Ranjit. She will dance as Kali, lusty and ready for battle.”
Raesa-Aunty exited, smiling lasciviously and winking at Jack, but Elizabeth recognized the ghost of anger there. Lakshmi returned to her former position, and struck a pose that seemed to defy possibility. Balanced on one leg with the other poised midair, creating a sort of triangle, she nodded to the musicians.
Drumbeat, frenzied and thunderous, shattered the silence of the room. Lakshmi began to dance in furious swooping motions, gentle undulation replaced by bent, nearly squatting legs and fast-tapping feet.
And much to Elizabeth’s consternation, Jack still hadn’t moved, or blinked, since the dancer dropped her veil. When she dug an elbow into his ribs, he started but did not move his eyes from Lakshmi. He did, however, motion for Raesa who stood some lengths to their right. She approached and bent to him, awaiting instruction.
“Need a private audience with her, savvy?” His slip into pirate’s voice was unforgivably careless, distracted.
“Ah, Captain-Master, I fear the price is high-high. We would not insult you so.”
“No price too high, aunty.” Removing the three largest rings from his fingers, he dropped them in Raesa’s hands, never shifting his gaze. His turban seemed to sag.
“Excellent, Sahib. I will bring betel nut for you and your,” she glanced at Elizabeth, leaving no doubt that she realized the trick, “boy.” She exited with a swish of silk.
Exposed and seething with anger, Elizabeth turned to speak, taking no pains to disguise her voice.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“Have to see her, Bess.”
“Is that bloody so? You made a promise, Jack Sparrow,” and she stood leaning into his face, aware she spat just a little. “- and damn you if you won’t keep it.”
“Pirate, luv. Can’t change that.” He eyes remained transfixed on Lakshmi, whose head now slid from side-to-side as if separated from her body.
“You’ve got a choice here, Captain Sparrow. Make it wisely.”
“Not like that, Bess.” He turned to her then, eyes liquid and glazed in the light. “She’s my sister.”
Jack entered the cabin with a sharp click, the rap of boots on wood signaling his approach, and Elizabeth started slightly, her trip into memory sliced short. She feigned a snore and turned, mumbling.
“I know yer awake, Bess.” His baldric hit the floor with a blunt thud.
“Only mildly.”
“Ah. And was it really necessary to drink me sister under the table? Never seen a woman so green, Bess.”
“We were being sisterly. Besides, seems to work well enough with you.”
“And was it a signal fire you lit tonight, or just plain desperation?”
“A little of both, maybe.”
“Mmm. Well, maybe next time you could just club her over the head, hmm darlin’? Terrible muck on deck - got Gibbs too, right on the arm she did. It’ll be murder in the mornin’.”
Opening her eyes and propping herself on a brown arm, she studied him as he toed off his boots and slid free of his breeches.
“You’re beautiful.” Her voice was gravel, dusky with desire.
“Flattery’ll get you nowhere, m’lady.”
“We’ll just have to see about that. You don’t know my extraordinary talents, Captain.” She patted the bed, sucking in a breath as he shed his shirt in a flutter and prowled, cat-like, towards her. Licking thumb and index finger, he extinguished the candle, gray wisps of smoke coiling between his fingers. He was bronze and marble, the sun’s demarcation drawn in even plateaus, his scars melting away in the dim. Rolling over to clear a place for him, she smoothed the rumpled sheets. He settled beside her, supine, and her eyes fell on the limpness between his legs, silver in the slick moonlight.
“Not tonight?”
“Too tired, Bess. Damned shame, really, because I had this idea about you and the coconut. Thought maybe…we could…if you just…and maybe…hairs…though…little buggers…nice…to think…”
He slept.
Her palm hovered over his spine, over the branches of scar tissue covering it, and she sketched a swan there with the pads of her fingers. She pressed her lips to his jaw, her own limbs heavy and yearning towards sleep, and she rolled away from him, her body seeking the cool pockets in the sheets. Dreams came sweetly, rose-scented and golden-crisp.
erinya, and my concrit darling,
djarum99. Special thanks to
compassrose7577 for the read-through. Ya'll rock my world!