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old-long-john · 7 years

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Davy Jones AU: Part One

There was an unseasonable chill creeping into the air as Hamish Reid set about lighting the lanterns aboard the deck of the schooner named Casco. The weather had been fine for weeks, the sun beating down hard upon their backs during the day and the stars cascading across the sky like a shimmering sea of shattered glass at night. Hamish had found himself praying for clouds, of the familiar sort that tucked in damp and close around the shores of the Firth of Clyde. He hadn’t known you could miss such things until he found himself in this place, desperate for a moment’s reprieve from this wide, hot, and foreign sky. In the failing light he could see the clouds that were finally looming on the horizon, but they were tall and deep purple, not the muted greys of home, and the air already felt sharp and pregnant with the weight of an angry storm brewing. Perhaps he’d sent up one prayer too many. He hadn’t considered that he might be tempting fate. Or perhaps his prayers had simply been heard by the wrong god. There were stories about these waters, and the false heathen deities that still clung to their depths.

“Boo!”

Hamish leapt back from the rail, the still-smoking taper in his hand falling over the side as he spun. “Jesus Christ!” he hissed. “Fuck’s sake, Philip, don’t do that! I nearly shat myself.”

Philip sniggered, leaning against the rail at Hamish’s side, while William, the Carpenter’s Mate, stood laughing behind him.

“You were miles away. Couldn’t resist,” Philip said, looking out towards the horizon. “That storm looks nasty. Should pass east of us, but the Captain’s changing course just in case.”

As though it could hear them, a long, low rumble of thunder rolled across them, and Hamish felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“Don’t get too close to the edge,” William said. “Long John Silver’ll get you. He sails these waters, prowling along the edges of the storms just waiting for men to go overboard. Your soul won’t even make it as far as purgatory.”

“You’re talking shite,” Hamish said, but he took a step back from the rail, just in case.

“You think so, do you? Calypso conjures the storms, he collects the souls,” William went on. “Everyone knows it. She cursed him. Bound him to his ship in servitude forever. He can’t make port; can’t eat or drink; can’t feel the touch of any woman. Ever. An eternity of solitude with nothing on the horizon but empty seas and violent storms. And all because she heard him telling stories about her, doubting her power. The offence had to be answered, see, so she proved her power to him once and for all.”

“That’s not how I heard it,” Philip interjected. “Who’ve you been talking to? They were in love. Or at least, he loved her. Don’t know that a god could ever truly love a man. She took a fancy to him at any rate. Then one day he went overboard. New sail was being hauled aloft, or something of the like, and the lashing snapped. He went clean over the edge, knocked out cold. He should’ve drowned, but she saved him. His whole crew saw it: a mermaid with hair as red as flame, hauling him back above the waves, blowing air into his nostrils to keep the water out. That was when they knew for sure just how far he had her favour.”

William looked sceptical. “Yeah right. If they loved each other then why would she curse him, eh?” He raised his eyebrows to emphasise just how clearly infallible he considered his logic to be.

Philip snorted. “She cursed him because he broke her heart. He betrayed her. Ancient gods might not be able to love, but no-one else is capable of such fathomless hate.”

“That’s not what Mr Calvin said,” Hamish blurted out, and he cleared his throat as two sets of eyes focused on him. “He said she betrayed him, and then he tried to cut his own heart out rather than live with the pain of it. That’s why he became so corrupted. She ruined him. He was barely even human after that. He was supposed to ferry souls to the afterlife in safety, not keep them from it.”

William shrugged, and said, “Yeah, well, whatever the truth of it, the stories are all the same in the end. He’s a man made monstrous. There’s no end to his appetite for cruelty. Any goodness in him turned to hate. Any kindness into rage. He shows no quarter, and the only mercy he ever offers is a quick death.”

“Unless you’ve got red hair,” Philip said, scrubbing a hand over Hamish’s head and earning a punch in the arm for it. “He has a soft spot for redheads. They remind him of her.”

“You’ve got it backwards,” said William, shaking his head. “That’s exactly why they’re always the first to go. Hard luck, Hamish lad. It was nice knowing you.”

“Fuck off,” muttered Hamish, smoothing his hair down. “Maybe we should talk about something else.” The air was feeling colder by the minute, and the goosebumps spreading up his arms were only making him feel more tense.

“Afraid he’s going to hear us?” William teased. “Don’t be such a milksop. They’re just stories.”

“I know that,” Hamish said quickly. “They don’t even make sense anyway. If he was a man of flesh and blood once then there’d still be some way to reason with him, to gain his mercy. Even if it was by a trick. There’s always a way, even in stories. No-one has a heart of stone.”

“I don’t have a heart at all.”

At the sound of the voice, all three of them leapt back against the rail, and Hamish thought his heart might hammer its way right through his ribcage. His pulse was roaring in his ears, though it was difficult to distinguish it from the thunder rolling overhead.

From out of the lantern-lit gloom a figure appeared. His gait was odd and lilting, and his every other step thudded hollowly against the decking. He wasn’t all that tall, but he seemed to fill the dark and loom over them nonetheless.

“Who’s that?” William called, the first to find his voice again. “Tom? You’re not fucking funny, mate.”

“Mm, no, not so funny these days, you’re right,” the man said, finally illuminated by the nearest lantern. “I was though. Once upon a time.”

Hamish felt his knuckles crack as his grip on the rail tightened. The thrum of blood in his ears had turned to ringing and he wondered whether he was going to pass out and hit the deck. Maybe he was ill. Maybe this was all just some strange fever dream.

The man seemed to be waiting for them to speak again, his eyes unnaturally blue in the low light.

“Long John Silver?” Hamish breathed, suddenly too certain of the truth of it to feel foolish in saying it out loud.

“The very same,” Silver replied, with a smile. It was wide and easy, but there was no kindness behind it. It looked like an old habit warped into something cruel.

Up close now Hamish could see him clearly. His hair was long and dark and wild, fighting free of its loose binding; crisp curls casting a halo around him in the lamp light, like the pale foam upon a storm-tossed sea. Here and there among it were trinkets braided in: cowry and auger shells; sleek blue-black feathers; and even what looked like the bones from a human toe, fixed in place with silver beads and neat threads. There was an air of the carefully kept about them, at odds with the chaos of the rest. His ears too glinted with silver rings that were tarnished with age, but looked to be maintained out of some sense of sentiment.

He didn’t look so monstrous, Hamish thought. Not in the ways his own imagination had constructed, at least. Indeed, he might even have been considered handsome by some, in his way, with his round, boyish face and those bright eyes and white teeth. But as Hamish looked closer he saw the wet patches of mottled grey-green on his skin, that looked like the rot of flesh submerged for days, and the odd barnacle that clung on along the edge of his rough beard. There were scars in places, like wide pockmarks, where other such unwelcome stowaways had been dug out with the point of a blade, or with impatient gouging fingernails. He looked half a dead thing; the other half simply hadn’t realised it yet.

“What do you want with us?” William said, and Hamish jumped a little as he remembered that he wasn’t alone with this apparition.

“Want? Who said I want anything?” Silver said, thumping another pace forward.

Hamish’s gaze dropped to his feet, and he saw that in place of a left leg stood a splintered and sea-worn wooden peg. Perhaps it had once been the handle of an oar - it was of that size and shape - but it looked to be a part of him now, fused to his flesh in lieu of bone and gristle, and bleached by the sun and the salt.

“Did your mothers never warn you?” Silver continued. “Talk of the Devil, and he shall appear.”

“Sir, please!” Philip said, his voice desperate and high. “We meant no harm. They were just ghost stories. That’s all. Please. If you leave us be then we’ll never speak of you again. We swear it. We can tell anyone who’ll listen never to tell stories about you. Not ever.”

Silver laughed, the sound of it almost drowned out by the rumble of the storm now roiling directly overhead. “And why would I want you to do that? I always loved stories. You were right. That is how he found me.”

“How who found you?” Philip whispered.

“Calypso,” Silver said. “Half the truth between the three of you, and yet the little details always end up lost, don’t they?”

They pressed their backs harder against the rail as Silver took another step closer, barely four feet away. His shirt was ragged, hanging open down the full length of his sternum, and Hamish saw that there was a tattoo on the left side of his chest: a mermaid with red hair. No, not a mermaid, a merman. Its flowing hair fanned out around it, its tail coiled over his heart, but a jagged and vicious looking scar ran through it, slicing it in two.

Silver’s eyes followed Hamish’s gaze, and he reached up and pulled his shirt open wider. “He betrayed me,” Silver said. “He broke my heart. Beyond repair. So I did what you do with all things that are broken irreparably: I cast it aside.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Hamish breathed, cold dread trickling down his spine. His knees felt loose and weak. He didn’t think he could stay standing for much longer.

“I so rarely have a captive audience these days. Seems a shame to waste the opportunity,” Silver replied, stepping closer still. “And besides, it adds a much needed flair of the dramatic to the whole proceedings.”

Some days later, when the crew of a fishing boat came across the schooner Casco drifting with the current, their first thought was that the crew must have abandoned ship in the storm. Strange though that there was no damage above the waterline that they could clearly see. The masts remained, the sails were neatly furled, and the hull looked to be intact. Perhaps then she had simply broken free of her mooring, drawn out into the open sea by the gusting winds. When they boarded her, however, and found her crew drowned, to a man, in even the most watertight bowels of the hold, their clothes sodden and their skin greying and slick, they began to understand. As they fled the ship, feet skidding across the deck in their scramble to escape, desperate prayers flooded out of them as they turned on the spot and spat on the deck to ward off the evil spirit responsible. But it was as they sailed away and caught sight of the figurehead, thick ropes of kelp binding her to a corpse with red hair and a cavernous wound in place of a heart, that the name Long John Silver came whispering past their lips. The stories told themselves after that.

#black sails #Davy Jones AU #ohflint #kambarbay #(this is your baby really)#so this is a thing #it was originally going to be a response to the prompt 'no-one has a heart of stone'#because all I could think of was Silver replying like that ^#but then it didn't feel properly silverflint enough to use as an answer so I'm just posting it like this #this is like...the very far end of every cool idea I've read about this AU #there's a bunch of awesome 'this is how they fell in love' stuff too #and I'll probably play with more of those (like the actual romantic parts & the parts where Silver isn't a part rotting cursed monster...)#but this was fun anyway #even if I didn't actually fit Calypso!Flint into it #other than as genderbent grapevine ghost stories #I never knew how fun it was to create OCs for the express purpose of doing terrible shit to them #every day of writing's an adventure #also an exercise in how to google what flesh looks like after days in water without ending up on a list #or seeing full on bloated corpse photos #delightful

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vowel-in-thug · 8 years

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silverflint "nevermind, the moment's gone"

also calling out @ohflint‘s post here as the major source of inspiration, and by that I mean megh and elle told me to write this, and here we are.

in which i steal from POTC again

“nevermind, the moment’s gone.”/ “that was a perfect example of how not to do things.”

It hasn’t started raining yet, but Flint looks over at Silver just as a particularly bright bolt of lightning crackles through the sky. It illuminates the shine of his long hair, the sweat pooling low on his throat, the blood splattered across his cheek, the livid snarl of his teeth, and the flash of his sword as he swings it through the air and into the gut of a Redcoat.

He’s never looked more beautiful.

Flint pulls his own sword out of the soldier in front of him and says to Silver, “You should marry me.”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” Silver responds automatically, whirling on the next soldier.

There are only a few more left on the bottom deck of the Walrus. By the time they dispatch of them all, Flint is breathing heavily, feels Silver doing the same where he’s pressed against his back. The ship belonging to these soldiers is a smoldering wreck out in front, but the last one is steadily gaining on them, just like Flint planned.

“Wait,” Silver pants, looking at him over his shoulder. “What did you say?”

Flint turns to him and nearly slips on someone’s misplaced intestine spilled out on the deck. “Nevermind,” he says, scraping off the sole of his boot. “The moment’s gone.”

“No, it isn’t.” One of Silver’s hands grips the front of Flint’s jacket. “Say it again.”

“You should marry me,” Flint says.

Silver frowns at him, and opens his mouth to speak but doesn’t. He’s probably thinking -- two men don’t get married. It just isn’t done in this society. But men also don’t wage a war against an entire ruling government, act in open rebellion against the Crown, find pleasure in killing, and steal whatever they can get their hands on. Since when did they care what was done in society?

Having apparently reached the same conclusion, Silver pulls Flint close, until they’re flush together, but he doesn’t kiss him. He calls out over his shoulder, “Jack! You need to marry us!”

Jack isn’t paying attention, up on the top deck, gesturing wildly to someone with a loaded gun. Anne is beside him, however, looking down at them like they’ve grown two extra heads.

“Hold fast on the starboard side!” Jack shouts. “Starboard!” He looks down. “What did you say?”

They still hold their swords, they’re still pressed closer. “Marry us!” Silver yells over the roaring wind.

Jack blinks down at them. “I’m not marrying you!” he says. “What about Anne?”

Anne scoffs with her whole body, and storms away, bumping into Jack hard as she passes. She starts poking the bodies on the ground as she makes her way to the bow, checking to see if any of them are still in need of killing.

“Us.” Flint now grips Silver’s jacket as a strong wave crashes into the side of the ship. “You’re the only other Captain here.”

If Jack is confused why two men want to marry, he doesn’t voice it. He does, however, ask, “What, you want to do this right now?”

Flint looks back at Silver, but he doesn’t look for very long, because Silver kisses him just as the clouds above finally split open. He tastes the assuredness on Silver’s tongue as well as he can taste the tang of someone else’s blood there, as well as he can taste the rain. He wants to crowd him against the mast and forget the whole plot for awhile. And he moves them one step back to do that, but then someone overhead shouts, “Incoming!” And they break away with the shuddering rock of cannonfire.

“Gun crews!” Flint stumbles away from Silver to look down at his men. “Fire at will!”

He turns back to see Silver kneeling, his hands dripping with blood, and his heart stops for one sick, horrifying, long second, fearing the worst.

But Silver is just wrestling a ring off a fallen soldier. His sword and his crutch are on the ground beside him, as he balances precariously on his knee, uncaring of the mayhem around him. He’s carving at the dead man’s finger with a small knife, muttering to himself as blood coats his palms down to his wrist, until the ring finally slides off with a slick sound. Silver holds it up and smiles. “Let’s do this right, darling.”

Anne, who happens to be running by at that second, stops in her tracks beside them. Flint knows she’s in just the right mental state to kill them both and not even remotely care. “I ain’t an expert with this shit,” she spits at Silver still on his knee, before turning away, “but I think that was a perfect fucking example of how not to do that.”

Silver pouts at Flint, struggling to stand. “You don’t want it?” He fiddles with it awkwardly, his sword forgotten on the ground. “I just thought --”

Flint snatches it out of his hand. “Pick up your fucking sword,” he says, sliding it on. It goes easy with all the blood, and it fits him perfectly. He looks back up on the top deck. “Jack!”

They all duck as debris goes flying. The final Navy ship is within boarding distance, and his crew makes their way over without waiting for Flint to tell them to do so, because Silver trained them all to know when Flint is too fucking busy to lay out the simplest order.

Even through the chaos, Flint can see Jack sigh. He’s not even looking at who he’s shooting in the face as he says, “Dearly departed, we are gathered here today --”

“Beloved,” shouts Flint, as the first Redcoat makes the mistake of trying to board the Walrus right in front of him. “Have you ever even been to a wedding before?”

“No. I’ve ruined several before. Does that count?”

Pirates swing from their ship to the Navy’s, crossing paths with soldiers doing the same, like vines, or dead men, hanging beneath a willow tree. Boots hit the deck all over, a rallying cry is heard over a tumultuous crash of thunder, Jack fires his pistol again and yells, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today for a decidedly different fucking purpose than a fucking wedding --” He’s cut off when a particularly burly Redcoat tackles him around the waist, apparently forgetting they both held swords.

“For fuck’s sake,” says Flint, slitting the throat of the man in front of him. He pivots towards Silver, who is bringing down his sword on a soldier like he’s holding an axe and not a sword. “John Silver, do you take me to be your husband?”

“I already fucking said--” Silver stabs someone else and faces him. “Oh, this is the -- right. Yes. I do.”

“Fantastic,” says Flint, and then he’s against the wall with two soldiers attacking at once, swords singing all around him like a flock of birds, and he’s keeping them back because they aren’t coordinated at all, but then Flint blocks a blade from above and another catches his side, just a glancing blow, but it makes him falter, bending instinctively to protect his new wound.

And then one of the men’s head explodes from the side, and his dead weight falls into the other soldier, both of them tumbling into the ground. Silver stomps up, pistol still smoking, as Flint pierces the living man right through the heart.

“Captain --” Silver stops. “Flint -- McGraw? James.” He throws his empty pistol over Flint’s shoulder, smacking a soldier right on the forehead, knocking him down into the raging sea. “Do you take me to be your not-so-lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, or, as is more likely, in brutal killing or in health, ‘til death do us part?”

“I fucking do.” Flint pulls Silver close again, and drives his sword into the man running up behind Silver with a gun. “Though we wouldn’t be parted for long.”

Silver grins. “Never,” he says, with blood in his teeth.

An overwhelming boom, like thunder but closer and tangible, resounds, and then a great crack is heard as the Navy ship jolts hard. Despite the waves and the wind and the storm, it seems like the ship is utterly still for just a moment before it breaks, the snap and twist of splitting wood sounding like the bones of God snapping.

And Jack is somehow, miraculously, still alive. “As a Captain, though not actually the Captain of this godforsaken ship,” he shouts, his face so bloody he looks like he’s wearing a mask. He’s also somehow standing on top of capstan, staying upright despite the turbulence. “I know pronounce you husband and wife, and I’ll let you decide amongst yourself who is who because I absolutely do not want to know. You may now ki--”

Jack falls, and they all fall, too. The force of the Navy ship sinking has sent a tidal wave crashing into the Walrus, and the ship is almost horizontal. Flint finds himself dangling from Silver’s crutch, Silver hanging onto a piece of rope. He can’t see what it’s attached to. Their eyes lock, because there’s nothing they can do in this moment other than hold on and see what happens, and all Flint wants to see is Silver. He lets go of his sword and uses both hands to pull himself up, until they’re face to face. Flint sees some fear in Silver’s eyes, some anger. But mostly he sees himself, reflected in their clear blue.

Over the din of screams and water, he vaguely hears someone shouting, “You may now k--”

The Walrus creaks dangerously as it struggles to right itself. One moment it is on a precipice, existing simultaneously between devastation and survival, which is how Flint has always lived his life. Which is how he isn’t surprised when the Walrus finally shifts upright. Flint survives -- it’s what he does.

Everyone is still on the floor, but quickly get to their feet. Except for Flint and Silver. They stay on the ground, clinging to each other, bleeding on each other. The only weapons they’re holding are each other.

Anne runs by again. She’s even bloodier than Jack, but she looks intensely satisfied. “Just fucking kiss,” she says as she goes, and Flint listens.

He could hear more fighting going on around him, but in the dark they must look like two more bodies on the deck, tangled together in death, and no one bothers them. Flint kisses Silver and thinks that’s fine. Let him be mistaken for dead, let him be dead, for all that it matters, as long as he dies like this. He has no need for final words on his tongue when Silver’s mouth is on his, swallowing them down. His enemy is falling, the rain is washing away his blood, and his husband is cupping his jaw and kissing him deeper. There are no better ways to die.

And then Silver is pulling away. “Stop it, dear,” he says, using the rope to pull himself upright. “I can always tell when you’re kissing me and thinking about dying. Now get up, find your sword, and get back to work. We haven’t won yet.”

Flint stands. “Already with the nagging,” he says, and he wipes a drop of blood from Silver’s brow with his thumb before it falls into his eye. “I think I’ve made a huge mistake.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Silver says as he turns to stab one of the few remaining soldiers running past. “I can tell you now, I’m an incredibly demanding spouse. And I won’t have you dying before I get my wedding night.” He kisses Flint once more, as hard and giving as himself, and then stomps back into the fight.

Flint survives.

#black sails #black sails fic #silverflint #hey look it's my suffering #this was so hard to write because of the gratuitous violence and the romance #to the anon who sent me another prompt i will do it -- eventually #ellelen #ohflint #karategirl448

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