Title: Corporeal
Pairings: Jack/Pearl, J/E if you want
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3070
Spoilers: DMC. Set during AWE but I’m ignoring what little I know
Summary: There is no death here. That does not mean there is no pain.
Author's Notes: Utterly inspired by![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
geek_mama_2’s love of Sentient Pearl, and I owe her and tessabeth much thanks for wonderful beta-reads. Cross-posted to fanfic100, sparrabeth, _peasinapod_, and ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
pirategasm. Fits fanfic100 prompt #55 – Spirit. My table is here.
The featureless horizon has surrounded them for weeks, an infinite expanse lacking any fixed point, and if not for the sun and its nocturnal, far-flung brothers, it would be impossible to distinguish which direction they are traveling in or, indeed, whether they are traveling at all.
Such surroundings are fertile ground for lethargy, or claustrophobia. It is odd how open space can take one that way; how the vast amount of somewhere inverts itself into nowhere, every bit as confining as the brig below decks. The galleon, no inconspicuous occupant in any harbor, is swallowed under the sky.
It is the despair that haunts Elizabeth the most, lurking in the shadows of her mind and taunting her: the everpresent feeling that they aren’t traveling fast enough, or that they will never arrive at their destination, instead forever sailing an unending sea.
At times she wonders if this is hell, if she has condemned herself through her betrayal, forever seeking to rectify what she did and never being allowed to succeed. Surrounded by others whom she deceived, and led by the biggest Judas of them all.
Yet she sets her teeth against it, doing her utmost to shake off the demon, channeling her frustration and futility into coaxing as much speed as possible from this hulk of a ship that feels so different from the Pearl.
*
She doesn’t notice when the change begins to take place.
Yet one day, it is unmistakable: the dull gray of the sky, though unmarred by clouds; the blackness of the water, as if transformed into ink. She looks ahead, and the horizon is dark.
*
Relief upon sighting land is short-lived. Dark, jutting cliffs rise up from the ocean, unforgiving to the waves smashing against them. Outlining them against the iron-grey sky is the hot orange glow of fire, and black smoke rises thickly from unseen sources beyond the ridge.
The sea is choppy from a chill, hollow wind that blows past them, causing Elizabeth to shiver and reevaluate her earlier ideas about hell.
That she sent Jack here is a thought that echoes dully through her mind: too far removed from any concept of reality for her to truly believe it, yet the unavoidable conclusion of their current circumstance.
That they will find him here is a stronger, though no more pleasant, notion.
She pulls out the compass. Its needle points toward the shore, unwavering.
*
The longboat is nearly dashed against the cliff before they are able to disembark, and Elizabeth fears it may not survive to bear them back to the ship. There is a brief fracas over who should stay to mind the boat; Elizabeth does not interject, being the keeper of the compass and thus the de facto guide. Yet she feels a frisson of discomfort when it is not Will who is elected to stay behind, but Gibbs.
She has not shared the secret of the compass, instead inventing some conceit about it pointing to Jack while in her hands due to her being the last person to see him. Tia Dalma had merely raised an eyebrow and let the lie pass. Will has not spoken of it, but she constantly fears his discovery of her betrayal – any of them.
They begin their ascent, along a narrow path strewn with obstructing rocks and low overhangs. The natural impediments, combined with the wind stinging her cheeks, allow Elizabeth to cease fretting over future conflicts with her fiancé and instead focus on not being swept off the cliffside and dashed against rocks sure to be less forgiving than those off Fort Charles.
A high-pitched, eerie cry shrieks on the tails of the wind, almost startling her off the ledge. Though its source is not readily visible, her companions have heard it as well. Will’s eyes are wide and startled, Barbossa’s narrow and searching. Elizabeth forces her gaze back to the compass and continues.
After a time, the needle begins to swing ‘round, causing a rush of anticipation, hope, and no small fear to swell in her throat. Yet all that lies before them is the craggy passageway, steadily ascending, with no indication of any other route.
“It says he’s here,” Elizabeth calls through the wind, pointing towards the rock face looming over them. Barbossa frowns and Will meets her bewildered gaze.
“Perhaps he’s over us!” he shouts to her, craning his neck up in a futile attempt to discern what lies above. “Or below us.” Which suggestion causes Elizabeth to look down worriedly, where the ground drops off sharply with no hint of a way down other than death.
“He’s certainly not here,” Barbossa says irritably, “nor, clearly, is my ship. So keep moving, missy.”
“He’s right,” Will acknowledges. “There’s nothing for it but to keep going. Perhaps the path takes a turn.”
*
They negotiate several hairpin turns, and - when their path ends abruptly - a short yet heartstopping climb directly up the cliff before finding another ledge wide enough to travel on. Barbossa insists upon going up first, Elizabeth suspecting him of desiring to pre-empt the possibility of either herself or Will ‘accidentally’ causing his fall. Though, Elizabeth considers, his death would be neither untimely nor novel.
The ledge has grown wider, the compass once again pointing ahead of them when Elizabeth stops abruptly.
“Wha-” Will’s voice fades away as he also sees what is ahead of them.
A woman. Tall, with alabaster skin presenting a contrast to midnight-black hair. Swathed in a dark gray gown, the misty fabric blowing about her body. Her obsidian gaze is fixed on Elizabeth, hard and unwavering.
Elizabeth advances cautiously, taking in this new presence. Her skin radiates an otherworldly glow, her age impossible to determine, smooth strong features coupled with bottomless eyes. As dark as Jack’s, with something fierce and dangerous lighting them. Elizabeth suppresses a shiver.
As she draws nearer to the apparition, Elizabeth can see a shadow in the rock, where what appears to be little more than a crevice retreats from the path. Her eye is caught by something in the darkness: the edge of a familiar brown tricorne, the flare of a gray coat.
“Jack,” she gasps softly, forgetting caution and hurrying forward before being arrested once again by that formidable gaze. Matching it with her own, she hisses, “Who are you?” Full of possessiveness and anger and determination.
The woman is unbowed. “I am the Black Pearl.”
From behind her she hears Barbossa give a wet, suggestive chuckle; Will inhales quickly. Elizabeth feels oddly unsurprised. “Then you know us,” she reasons. “Let us go to him.”
Those eyes turn to ice that Elizabeth can feel all the way to her toes. “Know you,” the Pearl whispers. “Yes, I know you, Elizabeth Swann.”
The fear that had been lacking is upon her in a rush, rendering her devoid of speech, instead overwhelmed with guilt and hopelessness. Vivid memories of the Pearl’s mast, the Pearl’s manacles clamping around Jack’s wrist, dooming him. Oh yes, the Pearl would know her.
Then Will is beside her, voice strong and authoritative. “We’ve come to bring him back – both of you.”
*
Does William Turner think his declaration will win him favor? the Pearl wonders. He who held Jack at swordpoint, demanding the compass? The one held in the hand of his traitorous fiancée, who had robbed Jack of his choice? What about the third member of this little rescue team, who had executed a calculated mutiny, beaten Jack and left him to die marooned? Who had abused and neglected her over the ensuing decade?
“Why do you want him back?”
Young Mr. Turner looks surprised, but no ready answer springs from his lips. As surely wouldn’t, considering how he last saw the man in question. The Swann girl refuses to look at her, a haunted and miserable expression on her face that causes a deal of satisfaction.
“Tisn’t Jack I’m after,” comes Barbossa’s leering reply, which is met with a look of disgust.
Turner’s voice forestalls any additional response. “He is our friend,” he says, and the Pearl is not persuaded despite the command in his tone, “and there is none other like him, nor like you, my lady. Why would we choose to leave him in this wasteland?”
She curls her lip in distaste. “You do not seek us out of any great love for Jack,” she disputes. “You came to assuage your own guilty consciences.”
Miss Swann flinches. “He didn’t deserve it,” she says in a small voice, half-hidden behind golden hair.
“Didn’t he?” The wind is picking up, laced with an icy chill, and the Pearl glances at her too-still companion with some worry. The temperature does not affect her, not like it does him. She mustn’t argue long. “He made a deal with Davy Jones. He knew what it entailed. He made it of his own free will.” Her eyes find Miss Swann, accusing.
The young woman looks up again, eyes bright with pain, and anger. “That’s not what I meant,” she whispers fiercely. “He didn’t deserve what I-” She cuts herself off, but not before her words draw the attention of her companions.
“He did not.” A small sound draws the Pearl’s attention, keenly audible to her despite the howl of the wind. She looks again to her side, and sees the shivering of his shoulders. Abandoning the self-indulgent argument, she ducks into the niche, crouching beside Jack and positioning herself to block the worst of the wind. When a shadow falls across the entrance, she looks up with a snarl.
Miss Swann falters but does not stop, fitting herself into the small remaining space, kneeling beside them both. “Please,” she says brokenly, and the Pearl reluctantly nods.
Her sun-bronzed hands reach to pull the hair back from Jack’s face, and she gasps at the bruises and scratches thus revealed. “Jack,” she whispers, then: “What happened to him? Why isn’t he awake?”
“There is no death here,” the Pearl says. “That doesn’t mean there is no pain.”
“Who did this to him?” she asks fiercely, one finger gently tracing a long cut before retreating into a fist.
You did. “There are things here, creatures, who prey upon spirits like his.” The brightest souls are the brightest targets. “I protect him as best I can.”
“You bear no wounds.” The observation is not accusing. The Pearl shakes her head.
“I am a different being. I do not bear my wounds on the outside.”
There is a brief silence, save for the wind and the occasional restless shuffle of boots just outside. Elizabeth settles herself by Jack’s head, fingers brushing lightly against his coat sleeve.
“Please let us take him back.” The words are barely audible, yet underlaid with steel. “Please. You cannot wish for him to stay here.”
There is the truth of it, which the Pearl cannot deny, despite her continuing reservations regarding the company she would be releasing him to. “I do not,” she agrees.
Elizabeth looks up, relief and hope in her eyes, and the Pearl preempts further comment. “It is not so simple as just carrying him back to your ship,” she says, as Will Turner crouches down to hear them. “He’s dead, and will stay dead if you simply bring his body back. His spirit will stay here.”
“What, then?” Elizabeth asks, more cautiously. Barbossa now, too, seats himself on the ledge just outside.
“He must be bound by blood to the one who killed him.”
“The kraken? But how could he be bound to the kraken?” Will’s voice can be heard, but the Pearl’s gaze never leaves Elizabeth.
Her face is pale, but her posture resolute as she looks back at the Pearl. The Pearl continues. “It means that the lives are joined. The death of one means the death of the other. Or, here, the life of one means the life of the other.” A smile that she does not feel. “Poetic, is it not? It ensures that the same one as before will not kill him again. And that the motives of those involved are pure.”
Elizabeth doesn’t waver, and some reluctant part of the Pearl is impressed. “I’ll do it,” she says quietly.
“What?” Turner’s voice again, confused and dismayed. “Elizabeth, you can’t, she said it only works with the one who killed him.”
Barbossa’s tone expresses more knowledge. “Once again it appears that treachery is a talent we share, Miss Turner.” He chuckles, clearly pleased.
“Elizabeth.” A pleading note in the boy’s voice now. “What does he mean? What’s going on?”
Elizabeth’s mouth opens, but no words come, her eyes rising to meet Will’s only to fall away again. “I-” she begins, then swallows and tries again. “I killed him, Will.” A small, desperate movement of her hands. “It was after him, not us, so I- I distracted him and chained him to the mast.”
Elizabeth will not look, but the Pearl sees Will straighten abruptly at this revelation, and stumble backwards, nearly forgetting the precipice behind him.
Barbossa looks on, not bothering to disguise his glee. “I do believe,” he says, “that you would make a rather fine pirate.”
“Don’t say that,” Elizabeth snaps, a hitch in her breath betraying her composure. The Pearl is reminded of the final word Jack spoke to Elizabeth, that “Pirate” which contained more admiration and respect than she’d ever had occasion to hear him utter. Jack had made it clear that he did not hold Miss Swann’s actions against her. Did the Pearl, then, have any right to?
“Elizabeth!” Turner’s voice makes it clear that he, at least, has some protest, and has recovered enough to express it.
“Will, please!” She faces him with a squared jaw under watery eyes. “I didn’t know what else to do. We all would have died. But now I can make it right, and bring him back, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
He visibly bites back whatever he was planning to say, and says instead, “By binding yourself to him? Who knows what else that means, Elizabeth?”
“Nothing,” says the Pearl. “They can be together or separate, it matters not. The only effect is in life and death.”
“Only effect,” Will snorts. “You’d be binding yourself to an early grave, Elizabeth. He’s a pirate, they’re not given to long life.”
“Perhaps not,” Elizabeth responds. “But he deserves a longer one than he was given, and I intend to rectify that.” She turns a determined gaze to the Pearl. “How do I do it?”
The Pearl looks back, wishing it hadn’t come to this at all. “An exchange of blood,” she says. “It doesn’t need to be much.”
Elizabeth nods, and pulls a knife from her boot, jaw set. Looking over, her eyes fall upon Jack’s left hand, laying open on the rock floor, a thin scar running across the breadth of his palm. Lifting his hand, she places a small cut parallel to the scar, stopping when blood wells up. Then, switching the knife to her left hand, she awkwardly but effectively makes a similar cut on her own palm.
Before she can place her hand against Jack’s, Will whispers, “Elizabeth, are you certain?”
She does not hesitate.
*
There is no thunderclap, no flashing light, not even a shiver in his body or her own to indicate that anything has changed. So Elizabeth presses her palm more firmly against Jack’s, ensuring that their blood has indeed mingled, and then turns to the Pearl.
“Can we take him home now?”
The Pearl does not smile. “Yes.”
Will, who has been shuffling fractiously on the ledge, steps forward. “Good. I’ll carry him.”
“No.”
Will looks taken aback by the Pearl’s refusal. “But, you can’t -” He is stopped short by her gaze.
“It is what I exist for, to carry him.” And she lifts Jack easily, as if he weighed nothing at all, despite his greater stature. “Come. I know a better way down.”
She leads them in the opposite direction, the path difficult but not as perilous as before. Elizabeth follows closely, keeping her eyes on Jack, who seems to still be sleeping. Her palm stings and itches where it was cut.
Behind her she can hear Will, can feel his disappointment and anger and betrayal. Oh, the feelings aren’t new, but now she knows their cause. And though she knows the cause is just, she cannot help but feel the freedom of confession, and the relief of knowing it is about to be put right – as much as is possible.
Barbossa has been suspiciously quiet, and she reflects that finding the Pearl in the form of a woman no doubt interfered with his plans for recovering her. Such a thought prompts a question in her mind.
“What about you?” she asks the Pearl. “How do we get you back?”
“We are bound, he and I.” The Pearl looks over her shoulder to meet Elizabeth’s eyes. “It was part of the bargain made with Jones. He lives, now, so I will live, also.”
Elizabeth considers this. “Are you and I bound now, as well?”
“Yes.” The Pearl turns away and continues forward.
When they arrive back at Gibbs and the longboat, Jack begins to stir. The Pearl holds him close for a moment, and murmurs something in his ear. His eyes blink open.
She sets him on his feet and steps back, and he sways in the wind. Elizabeth is beside him in a moment, placing a steadying hand on his waist, meeting his eyes with no small trepidation. There is nothing save pleasure and wickedness in his gaze, however, and when he says “Lizzie! I only wanted ‘til death do us part, but that’s clearly not enough for you,” a smile rises up in her despite herself. Gibbs exclaims delightedly at the sight of his captain, and she can even hear Will express polite gladness that Jack is well.
After a bemused Jack greets them all – albeit somewhat hazily, and with a look of dismay at Barbossa – Gibbs says, “But that lady, where did she go off to? Who was she?”
Elizabeth glances around them and sees that the Pearl is indeed no longer among them. Confusion creases her brow until her eye travels farther out.
“There she is, Mr. Gibbs.” Elizabeth points out at the sea, where the Black Pearl lies at anchor, waiting to bear them home.
Pairings: Jack/Pearl, J/E if you want
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3070
Spoilers: DMC. Set during AWE but I’m ignoring what little I know
Summary: There is no death here. That does not mean there is no pain.
Author's Notes: Utterly inspired by
geek_mama_2’s love of Sentient Pearl, and I owe her and tessabeth much thanks for wonderful beta-reads. Cross-posted to fanfic100, sparrabeth, _peasinapod_, and pirategasm. Fits fanfic100 prompt #55 – Spirit. My table is here.The featureless horizon has surrounded them for weeks, an infinite expanse lacking any fixed point, and if not for the sun and its nocturnal, far-flung brothers, it would be impossible to distinguish which direction they are traveling in or, indeed, whether they are traveling at all.
Such surroundings are fertile ground for lethargy, or claustrophobia. It is odd how open space can take one that way; how the vast amount of somewhere inverts itself into nowhere, every bit as confining as the brig below decks. The galleon, no inconspicuous occupant in any harbor, is swallowed under the sky.
It is the despair that haunts Elizabeth the most, lurking in the shadows of her mind and taunting her: the everpresent feeling that they aren’t traveling fast enough, or that they will never arrive at their destination, instead forever sailing an unending sea.
At times she wonders if this is hell, if she has condemned herself through her betrayal, forever seeking to rectify what she did and never being allowed to succeed. Surrounded by others whom she deceived, and led by the biggest Judas of them all.
Yet she sets her teeth against it, doing her utmost to shake off the demon, channeling her frustration and futility into coaxing as much speed as possible from this hulk of a ship that feels so different from the Pearl.
*
She doesn’t notice when the change begins to take place.
Yet one day, it is unmistakable: the dull gray of the sky, though unmarred by clouds; the blackness of the water, as if transformed into ink. She looks ahead, and the horizon is dark.
*
Relief upon sighting land is short-lived. Dark, jutting cliffs rise up from the ocean, unforgiving to the waves smashing against them. Outlining them against the iron-grey sky is the hot orange glow of fire, and black smoke rises thickly from unseen sources beyond the ridge.
The sea is choppy from a chill, hollow wind that blows past them, causing Elizabeth to shiver and reevaluate her earlier ideas about hell.
That she sent Jack here is a thought that echoes dully through her mind: too far removed from any concept of reality for her to truly believe it, yet the unavoidable conclusion of their current circumstance.
That they will find him here is a stronger, though no more pleasant, notion.
She pulls out the compass. Its needle points toward the shore, unwavering.
*
The longboat is nearly dashed against the cliff before they are able to disembark, and Elizabeth fears it may not survive to bear them back to the ship. There is a brief fracas over who should stay to mind the boat; Elizabeth does not interject, being the keeper of the compass and thus the de facto guide. Yet she feels a frisson of discomfort when it is not Will who is elected to stay behind, but Gibbs.
She has not shared the secret of the compass, instead inventing some conceit about it pointing to Jack while in her hands due to her being the last person to see him. Tia Dalma had merely raised an eyebrow and let the lie pass. Will has not spoken of it, but she constantly fears his discovery of her betrayal – any of them.
They begin their ascent, along a narrow path strewn with obstructing rocks and low overhangs. The natural impediments, combined with the wind stinging her cheeks, allow Elizabeth to cease fretting over future conflicts with her fiancé and instead focus on not being swept off the cliffside and dashed against rocks sure to be less forgiving than those off Fort Charles.
A high-pitched, eerie cry shrieks on the tails of the wind, almost startling her off the ledge. Though its source is not readily visible, her companions have heard it as well. Will’s eyes are wide and startled, Barbossa’s narrow and searching. Elizabeth forces her gaze back to the compass and continues.
After a time, the needle begins to swing ‘round, causing a rush of anticipation, hope, and no small fear to swell in her throat. Yet all that lies before them is the craggy passageway, steadily ascending, with no indication of any other route.
“It says he’s here,” Elizabeth calls through the wind, pointing towards the rock face looming over them. Barbossa frowns and Will meets her bewildered gaze.
“Perhaps he’s over us!” he shouts to her, craning his neck up in a futile attempt to discern what lies above. “Or below us.” Which suggestion causes Elizabeth to look down worriedly, where the ground drops off sharply with no hint of a way down other than death.
“He’s certainly not here,” Barbossa says irritably, “nor, clearly, is my ship. So keep moving, missy.”
“He’s right,” Will acknowledges. “There’s nothing for it but to keep going. Perhaps the path takes a turn.”
*
They negotiate several hairpin turns, and - when their path ends abruptly - a short yet heartstopping climb directly up the cliff before finding another ledge wide enough to travel on. Barbossa insists upon going up first, Elizabeth suspecting him of desiring to pre-empt the possibility of either herself or Will ‘accidentally’ causing his fall. Though, Elizabeth considers, his death would be neither untimely nor novel.
The ledge has grown wider, the compass once again pointing ahead of them when Elizabeth stops abruptly.
“Wha-” Will’s voice fades away as he also sees what is ahead of them.
A woman. Tall, with alabaster skin presenting a contrast to midnight-black hair. Swathed in a dark gray gown, the misty fabric blowing about her body. Her obsidian gaze is fixed on Elizabeth, hard and unwavering.
Elizabeth advances cautiously, taking in this new presence. Her skin radiates an otherworldly glow, her age impossible to determine, smooth strong features coupled with bottomless eyes. As dark as Jack’s, with something fierce and dangerous lighting them. Elizabeth suppresses a shiver.
As she draws nearer to the apparition, Elizabeth can see a shadow in the rock, where what appears to be little more than a crevice retreats from the path. Her eye is caught by something in the darkness: the edge of a familiar brown tricorne, the flare of a gray coat.
“Jack,” she gasps softly, forgetting caution and hurrying forward before being arrested once again by that formidable gaze. Matching it with her own, she hisses, “Who are you?” Full of possessiveness and anger and determination.
The woman is unbowed. “I am the Black Pearl.”
From behind her she hears Barbossa give a wet, suggestive chuckle; Will inhales quickly. Elizabeth feels oddly unsurprised. “Then you know us,” she reasons. “Let us go to him.”
Those eyes turn to ice that Elizabeth can feel all the way to her toes. “Know you,” the Pearl whispers. “Yes, I know you, Elizabeth Swann.”
The fear that had been lacking is upon her in a rush, rendering her devoid of speech, instead overwhelmed with guilt and hopelessness. Vivid memories of the Pearl’s mast, the Pearl’s manacles clamping around Jack’s wrist, dooming him. Oh yes, the Pearl would know her.
Then Will is beside her, voice strong and authoritative. “We’ve come to bring him back – both of you.”
*
Does William Turner think his declaration will win him favor? the Pearl wonders. He who held Jack at swordpoint, demanding the compass? The one held in the hand of his traitorous fiancée, who had robbed Jack of his choice? What about the third member of this little rescue team, who had executed a calculated mutiny, beaten Jack and left him to die marooned? Who had abused and neglected her over the ensuing decade?
“Why do you want him back?”
Young Mr. Turner looks surprised, but no ready answer springs from his lips. As surely wouldn’t, considering how he last saw the man in question. The Swann girl refuses to look at her, a haunted and miserable expression on her face that causes a deal of satisfaction.
“Tisn’t Jack I’m after,” comes Barbossa’s leering reply, which is met with a look of disgust.
Turner’s voice forestalls any additional response. “He is our friend,” he says, and the Pearl is not persuaded despite the command in his tone, “and there is none other like him, nor like you, my lady. Why would we choose to leave him in this wasteland?”
She curls her lip in distaste. “You do not seek us out of any great love for Jack,” she disputes. “You came to assuage your own guilty consciences.”
Miss Swann flinches. “He didn’t deserve it,” she says in a small voice, half-hidden behind golden hair.
“Didn’t he?” The wind is picking up, laced with an icy chill, and the Pearl glances at her too-still companion with some worry. The temperature does not affect her, not like it does him. She mustn’t argue long. “He made a deal with Davy Jones. He knew what it entailed. He made it of his own free will.” Her eyes find Miss Swann, accusing.
The young woman looks up again, eyes bright with pain, and anger. “That’s not what I meant,” she whispers fiercely. “He didn’t deserve what I-” She cuts herself off, but not before her words draw the attention of her companions.
“He did not.” A small sound draws the Pearl’s attention, keenly audible to her despite the howl of the wind. She looks again to her side, and sees the shivering of his shoulders. Abandoning the self-indulgent argument, she ducks into the niche, crouching beside Jack and positioning herself to block the worst of the wind. When a shadow falls across the entrance, she looks up with a snarl.
Miss Swann falters but does not stop, fitting herself into the small remaining space, kneeling beside them both. “Please,” she says brokenly, and the Pearl reluctantly nods.
Her sun-bronzed hands reach to pull the hair back from Jack’s face, and she gasps at the bruises and scratches thus revealed. “Jack,” she whispers, then: “What happened to him? Why isn’t he awake?”
“There is no death here,” the Pearl says. “That doesn’t mean there is no pain.”
“Who did this to him?” she asks fiercely, one finger gently tracing a long cut before retreating into a fist.
You did. “There are things here, creatures, who prey upon spirits like his.” The brightest souls are the brightest targets. “I protect him as best I can.”
“You bear no wounds.” The observation is not accusing. The Pearl shakes her head.
“I am a different being. I do not bear my wounds on the outside.”
There is a brief silence, save for the wind and the occasional restless shuffle of boots just outside. Elizabeth settles herself by Jack’s head, fingers brushing lightly against his coat sleeve.
“Please let us take him back.” The words are barely audible, yet underlaid with steel. “Please. You cannot wish for him to stay here.”
There is the truth of it, which the Pearl cannot deny, despite her continuing reservations regarding the company she would be releasing him to. “I do not,” she agrees.
Elizabeth looks up, relief and hope in her eyes, and the Pearl preempts further comment. “It is not so simple as just carrying him back to your ship,” she says, as Will Turner crouches down to hear them. “He’s dead, and will stay dead if you simply bring his body back. His spirit will stay here.”
“What, then?” Elizabeth asks, more cautiously. Barbossa now, too, seats himself on the ledge just outside.
“He must be bound by blood to the one who killed him.”
“The kraken? But how could he be bound to the kraken?” Will’s voice can be heard, but the Pearl’s gaze never leaves Elizabeth.
Her face is pale, but her posture resolute as she looks back at the Pearl. The Pearl continues. “It means that the lives are joined. The death of one means the death of the other. Or, here, the life of one means the life of the other.” A smile that she does not feel. “Poetic, is it not? It ensures that the same one as before will not kill him again. And that the motives of those involved are pure.”
Elizabeth doesn’t waver, and some reluctant part of the Pearl is impressed. “I’ll do it,” she says quietly.
“What?” Turner’s voice again, confused and dismayed. “Elizabeth, you can’t, she said it only works with the one who killed him.”
Barbossa’s tone expresses more knowledge. “Once again it appears that treachery is a talent we share, Miss Turner.” He chuckles, clearly pleased.
“Elizabeth.” A pleading note in the boy’s voice now. “What does he mean? What’s going on?”
Elizabeth’s mouth opens, but no words come, her eyes rising to meet Will’s only to fall away again. “I-” she begins, then swallows and tries again. “I killed him, Will.” A small, desperate movement of her hands. “It was after him, not us, so I- I distracted him and chained him to the mast.”
Elizabeth will not look, but the Pearl sees Will straighten abruptly at this revelation, and stumble backwards, nearly forgetting the precipice behind him.
Barbossa looks on, not bothering to disguise his glee. “I do believe,” he says, “that you would make a rather fine pirate.”
“Don’t say that,” Elizabeth snaps, a hitch in her breath betraying her composure. The Pearl is reminded of the final word Jack spoke to Elizabeth, that “Pirate” which contained more admiration and respect than she’d ever had occasion to hear him utter. Jack had made it clear that he did not hold Miss Swann’s actions against her. Did the Pearl, then, have any right to?
“Elizabeth!” Turner’s voice makes it clear that he, at least, has some protest, and has recovered enough to express it.
“Will, please!” She faces him with a squared jaw under watery eyes. “I didn’t know what else to do. We all would have died. But now I can make it right, and bring him back, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
He visibly bites back whatever he was planning to say, and says instead, “By binding yourself to him? Who knows what else that means, Elizabeth?”
“Nothing,” says the Pearl. “They can be together or separate, it matters not. The only effect is in life and death.”
“Only effect,” Will snorts. “You’d be binding yourself to an early grave, Elizabeth. He’s a pirate, they’re not given to long life.”
“Perhaps not,” Elizabeth responds. “But he deserves a longer one than he was given, and I intend to rectify that.” She turns a determined gaze to the Pearl. “How do I do it?”
The Pearl looks back, wishing it hadn’t come to this at all. “An exchange of blood,” she says. “It doesn’t need to be much.”
Elizabeth nods, and pulls a knife from her boot, jaw set. Looking over, her eyes fall upon Jack’s left hand, laying open on the rock floor, a thin scar running across the breadth of his palm. Lifting his hand, she places a small cut parallel to the scar, stopping when blood wells up. Then, switching the knife to her left hand, she awkwardly but effectively makes a similar cut on her own palm.
Before she can place her hand against Jack’s, Will whispers, “Elizabeth, are you certain?”
She does not hesitate.
*
There is no thunderclap, no flashing light, not even a shiver in his body or her own to indicate that anything has changed. So Elizabeth presses her palm more firmly against Jack’s, ensuring that their blood has indeed mingled, and then turns to the Pearl.
“Can we take him home now?”
The Pearl does not smile. “Yes.”
Will, who has been shuffling fractiously on the ledge, steps forward. “Good. I’ll carry him.”
“No.”
Will looks taken aback by the Pearl’s refusal. “But, you can’t -” He is stopped short by her gaze.
“It is what I exist for, to carry him.” And she lifts Jack easily, as if he weighed nothing at all, despite his greater stature. “Come. I know a better way down.”
She leads them in the opposite direction, the path difficult but not as perilous as before. Elizabeth follows closely, keeping her eyes on Jack, who seems to still be sleeping. Her palm stings and itches where it was cut.
Behind her she can hear Will, can feel his disappointment and anger and betrayal. Oh, the feelings aren’t new, but now she knows their cause. And though she knows the cause is just, she cannot help but feel the freedom of confession, and the relief of knowing it is about to be put right – as much as is possible.
Barbossa has been suspiciously quiet, and she reflects that finding the Pearl in the form of a woman no doubt interfered with his plans for recovering her. Such a thought prompts a question in her mind.
“What about you?” she asks the Pearl. “How do we get you back?”
“We are bound, he and I.” The Pearl looks over her shoulder to meet Elizabeth’s eyes. “It was part of the bargain made with Jones. He lives, now, so I will live, also.”
Elizabeth considers this. “Are you and I bound now, as well?”
“Yes.” The Pearl turns away and continues forward.
When they arrive back at Gibbs and the longboat, Jack begins to stir. The Pearl holds him close for a moment, and murmurs something in his ear. His eyes blink open.
She sets him on his feet and steps back, and he sways in the wind. Elizabeth is beside him in a moment, placing a steadying hand on his waist, meeting his eyes with no small trepidation. There is nothing save pleasure and wickedness in his gaze, however, and when he says “Lizzie! I only wanted ‘til death do us part, but that’s clearly not enough for you,” a smile rises up in her despite herself. Gibbs exclaims delightedly at the sight of his captain, and she can even hear Will express polite gladness that Jack is well.
After a bemused Jack greets them all – albeit somewhat hazily, and with a look of dismay at Barbossa – Gibbs says, “But that lady, where did she go off to? Who was she?”
Elizabeth glances around them and sees that the Pearl is indeed no longer among them. Confusion creases her brow until her eye travels farther out.
“There she is, Mr. Gibbs.” Elizabeth points out at the sea, where the Black Pearl lies at anchor, waiting to bear them home.