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dwgmThis is a sequel to #18 - Education - Jack/Elizabeth’s acquisition of worldly knowledge - and longer, too, at 575 words. Hugs to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hereswith for staying up late to help me work out one problematic sentence.
19. Ink - The stories behind Jack's tattoos.
~ Truth in Ink ~
Somehow, in the course of subsequent events, the wicked became Profound.
This thought formed unbidden in Jack's head. Unwanted, even. But undeniable, too, and it brought an unwonted silence. For a long time after they'd made an end, they lay twined together, just breathing, a haven of strangely blessed warmth in the cool moonlight.
He thought she was asleep when he finally lifted his hand to stroke her hair.
But, gentle as he was, she stirred, shifted slightly and caught the hand, and brought his wrist, adorned with brand and ink, to her lips. Thanks and benediction.
It was she who spoke first, studying said wrist in the faint silver light. "Why Sparrow?" She shifted her gaze, and there was that ubiquitous insistence on truth, mingled now with affection—even love, maybe.
Jack said, "It's a family name. I was born and bred John Teague, of course. Didn't change it 'til I lost the Wicked Wench and found… the Pirate."
"Beckett." The name was like a curse on her lips, and there was real grief on her face now, for the young man she imagined he'd been.
He smiled, wryly. "It was there all along. The stripes and the brand only confirmed it. Wasn't enjoyable – though Beckett might beg to differ – but maybe it was… necessary."
Her fingers curled around his wrist; her thumb brushed against the half-numbed scar of the brand, comfort vague as a dream. “But about the sparrow?" she asked, again.
He sighed at the past, and his apparent compulsion to tell her some of it, at least. "Teague and I had a falling out when I came back with the Pearl-- the Wench raised from the depths by Jones. Teague had wanted me safe, see, on dry land, and out of the sweet trade. Seems laughable now, don't it? I was twelve when he sent me to 'prentice with his sister's husband in Portsmouth, a cartographer, and as close to bein' a gentleman as made no odds. Learned a lot, but the sea was calling. And it's bloody cold in England, as you may remember. So all Teague's plans came to nothing, and we had a bit of a row over it when I came back so destroyed, as he named it. In the end, I told him he was a coward for holing up at the Cove, that I refused his name, and that mother'd be ashamed of him if she were still alive—tried to shoot me for that, hit too close to home, maybe. I took my cue, made a dignified yet timely exit and sailed off east. Some friends in the spice islands set this into my skin – my own design."
"A sparrow over water, before the rising sun."
"Precisely!" So many fools took it for a setting sun, but not Lizzie, by God. Not his Lizzie.
"But Jack, why Sparrow?" She was persistent. She was like him in that, too. "You said it's a family name?"
"Aye. My mother's name, Isabel Moineau – that's Sparrow, in English."
Elizabeth's lips curved in pleased comprehension, and she looked so beautiful that Jack's mind flooded with the many, varied expressions that face had worn during the course of this night – wanton deviltry, naked desire; an ecstasy so exquisite that the memory of it made him stir anew, sated as he was.
He bent and kissed her, and whispered against those lips, "She would have liked you, love, upon my soul."
~.~
hereswith for staying up late to help me work out one problematic sentence.19. Ink - The stories behind Jack's tattoos.
~ Truth in Ink ~
Somehow, in the course of subsequent events, the wicked became Profound.
This thought formed unbidden in Jack's head. Unwanted, even. But undeniable, too, and it brought an unwonted silence. For a long time after they'd made an end, they lay twined together, just breathing, a haven of strangely blessed warmth in the cool moonlight.
He thought she was asleep when he finally lifted his hand to stroke her hair.
But, gentle as he was, she stirred, shifted slightly and caught the hand, and brought his wrist, adorned with brand and ink, to her lips. Thanks and benediction.
It was she who spoke first, studying said wrist in the faint silver light. "Why Sparrow?" She shifted her gaze, and there was that ubiquitous insistence on truth, mingled now with affection—even love, maybe.
Jack said, "It's a family name. I was born and bred John Teague, of course. Didn't change it 'til I lost the Wicked Wench and found… the Pirate."
"Beckett." The name was like a curse on her lips, and there was real grief on her face now, for the young man she imagined he'd been.
He smiled, wryly. "It was there all along. The stripes and the brand only confirmed it. Wasn't enjoyable – though Beckett might beg to differ – but maybe it was… necessary."
Her fingers curled around his wrist; her thumb brushed against the half-numbed scar of the brand, comfort vague as a dream. “But about the sparrow?" she asked, again.
He sighed at the past, and his apparent compulsion to tell her some of it, at least. "Teague and I had a falling out when I came back with the Pearl-- the Wench raised from the depths by Jones. Teague had wanted me safe, see, on dry land, and out of the sweet trade. Seems laughable now, don't it? I was twelve when he sent me to 'prentice with his sister's husband in Portsmouth, a cartographer, and as close to bein' a gentleman as made no odds. Learned a lot, but the sea was calling. And it's bloody cold in England, as you may remember. So all Teague's plans came to nothing, and we had a bit of a row over it when I came back so destroyed, as he named it. In the end, I told him he was a coward for holing up at the Cove, that I refused his name, and that mother'd be ashamed of him if she were still alive—tried to shoot me for that, hit too close to home, maybe. I took my cue, made a dignified yet timely exit and sailed off east. Some friends in the spice islands set this into my skin – my own design."
"A sparrow over water, before the rising sun."
"Precisely!" So many fools took it for a setting sun, but not Lizzie, by God. Not his Lizzie.
"But Jack, why Sparrow?" She was persistent. She was like him in that, too. "You said it's a family name?"
"Aye. My mother's name, Isabel Moineau – that's Sparrow, in English."
Elizabeth's lips curved in pleased comprehension, and she looked so beautiful that Jack's mind flooded with the many, varied expressions that face had worn during the course of this night – wanton deviltry, naked desire; an ecstasy so exquisite that the memory of it made him stir anew, sated as he was.
He bent and kissed her, and whispered against those lips, "She would have liked you, love, upon my soul."
~.~
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no subject
Date: 2009-11-22 10:15 pm (UTC)You always have Jack's dialogue down so perfectly!
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Date: 2009-11-23 12:23 am (UTC)