Exorcism

A/N: Many thanks to Femmevixen13 for reviewing :)

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The minutes that passed seemed to turn into hours while Elizabeth sat in the entrance hall of her former home, waiting for Jack to return. What was he doing up there? While the stairs had proven to be fairly intact, the same was not necessarily true for the upper floor, though it would probably not have gone unnoticed, had he caused the whole ceiling to come crashing down. Which didn’t mean that he was safe, though. He might be doing something entirely stupid … she couldn’t quite figure what it was, but the man who’d left her behind had been one driven by madness, the kind of man to survive being tied to a cannonball, cannibals and even death itself, but she feared that the rules that normally applied to Captain Jack Sparrow had no validity in this house. It was, after all, the hiding place of a man who’d take her to England at the risk of his own life, and as long as this man was still present, she knew the legend of a notorious pirate would be threatened. She looked over her shoulder, up the stairs and listened into the darkness, trying to make out a sound, only a single sound to tell her that he was alright, but there was nothing except for the soft wind sweeping through the trees and the chirping of the cicadas floating in from outside.

She shivered and wrapped her arms around her knees, scolding herself for being such a bag of nerves. Jack was fine, presumably amusing himself with a bottle of rum or whatever he’d found up there. Why was she worrying about him, anyway? She closed her eyes and found she was feeling tired and exhausted, like she’d just come from a long walk, and she wished Jack would return soon so they could finally leave this place. It was late and the crew was probably waiting … waiting … .

She felt herself dozing off, finally able to let go for a while - and there, almost indistinguishable from the silence, she could hear the arising of voices, a thousand whispers, and they all seemed to address her, telling her about a girl that had once walked these halls, a girl who’d dreamt of a pirate ever since she came over from England. A girl that was looking at her, reproachfully and disgusted, appalled by what she’d become. Elizabeth opened her eyes in horror, trying to shut the images out, but they seemed to be inside and all around her, haunting her and suddenly, she realized that Jack had been wrong. The man who hid inside the ruins of Port Royal was not alone. With him was a girl, and together they were mourning a life never lived.

Screaming, she thought she might have been screaming, but no sound elicited from her mouth and then, the visions were gone. She closed her eyes and opened them again, only to find she was alone, the entrance hall as empty and deserted as ever. Picking up the candle she’d placed beside herself, she got to her feet and pressed her back against the wall, taking long and steady breaths to calm herself. She’d probably fallen asleep and her troubled mind had produced exceptionally vivid nightmares, there was nothing to worry about that. There was no such thing as ghosts, no visions or messages from the netherworld … no such thing. But there … she listened intently and there was no denying it was actually there, a song – no, rather the echo of a song – was floating through the hall, the very song they’d sung as children, the one she’d taught Jack on the island, but this time, it sounded like a lament to her.

A pirate’s life for me …

Never, never again … it had all been an illusion, a stupid childhood dream, a stupid, stupid misconception that had ruined her life. She wanted to ignore it, wanted to shut the melody out, but the harder she tried, the louder it seemed to swell and she almost dropped her candle in the sudden urge to cover her ears.

“What do you want from me?” she shouted into the darkness, instinctively closing her free hand around the handle of her sword.

And suddenly, the singing ceased, only to be replaced by a voice that was calling out for her. A voice that sounded strangely familiar, and yet like a faraway dream. Her own voice, she realized, as if part of herself was trying to break through the barriers, the very part that craved for forgiveness and resurrection.

“Your dreams may have been an illusion,” it whispered, “but freedom is not. Nor is the man upstairs ….”

She wanted to keep on believing that this was just her mind playing tricks on her, but found herselfunable to shake off the feeling that she’d finally admitted to herself she didn’t want her life to be over just yet. She’d come so far, a long way from the gilded cage of her childhood to the ruins of life as she knew it and she felt exhausted, needed some time to rest and reconsider, but it was too soon to give up. No, she decided, she wasn’t ready to go back to England, not until she knew for sure the battle had been lost.

This was not about Beckett or about World’s End, it was about choices and hers was still to be made.

The upper floor didn’t look as decrepit as she’d have expected it to and Elizabeth heaved a sigh of relief at the discovery that it probably wasn’t in danger of collapsing anytime soon. Jack was nowhere to be seen, but with the whole front part of the house missing, he didn’t have much of a choice, considering that only one of the two passages setting out from the stairhead actually led into the rear part where her room had been located.

Suddenly, a thought struck her mind. He didn’t know about her room – or did he? He’d known about the picture in the parlour, so it was probably not too far-fetched to assume that he’d inquired about other locations as well, even though she could not think of a likely explanation as to why he should be interested in the remains of her earthly possessions. Elizabeth hadn’t wasted a single thought on all the things she’d left behind – not since her wedding day, and even now, she hardly remembered anything substantial, just forms and colours, tastes and sounds, like the bright spots the sunlight painted across the wall when she woke in the morning, the songs the slaves in the kitchen used to sing, the heavy scent of the hedges in spring and the deep blue of the sea shimmering in the distance. No dresses or furniture, no jewellery or books, for they could be replaced far too easily to have any meaning beyond their material value. And she had never cared about that.

It was odd to see that the door to her room was still intact and closed, almost as if she’d only been away for a few hours, not for several months. Before she’d left, most of her possessions had been packed into large trunks, ready to follow her into her new life as Mrs. William Turner and she briefly wondered whether they’d ever made it into the nice little house her father had bought for them only a few hundred yards away. Thought of that house had scared her then, and it still did - a symbol of renewed captivity, a sweet prison with the underlying promise of love at the cost of freedom. She had been prepared to make the sacrifice, but fate had intervened and now she found her own personal odyssey had come to an end and led her back to the place of her childhood, strangely familiar and yet alien and distorting, as if someone had placed a spell on it.

The brazen handle felt cold under her grip and she hesitated before pushing it down, trying to prepare herself for what she was about to face. Chaos and destruction, no more forms and colours but a dusty grey mass bereft of any familiarity it might have possessed for her, had she returned before the earthquake. Or Jack, a human shape in the midst of it all, breathing and alive though he shouldn’t be, and she didn’t know if she could actually bear it.

But her room was empty, as empty as she’d left it. Jack had not been here, she could tell from the dust covering the floor, undisturbed by human feet ever since it had buried the brightly polished parquet, and she was surprised to find that she felt slightly disappointed. Part of the furniture was still intact, even though her beloved davenport and a dresser had fallen over and were probably broken now. Strangely enough, the big four-poster bed she’d used to sleep in hadn’t suffered much; even the inevitable collapse of the four posters had spared the mattress, now hidden beneath the heavy bed-curtains covering it like a deformed blanket.

Despite everything, this was still her room – looked like her room and felt like her room, and she found she didn’t care in the least about the missing windows or the fallen off pictures.

Part of her was still here, a part she had intended to leave behind when she’d decided to marry Will: The girl that had read about pirates and dreamed about freedom. She had been spared this sacrifice, she now realized. If she wanted it – really wanted it, Elizabeth Swann, the woman and Elizabeth Swann, the girl could be one again. This was what this house had tried to tell her, the silent invitation her room still held and the hidden meaning behind Jack’s words, for it was as true for him as it was for her. They both could return to light and colours, to forms and tastes that were not only an illusion but part of life itself, but though she knew she wanted it more than anything, she was not prepared for it. Not yet, for it was a long journey from World’s End and first she had to know if it was worth the struggle.

She closed the door again and walked further down the corridor, knowing he had to be there, somewhere. And then, she saw the light creeping from underneath the rearmost door, a feeble shimmer almost swallowed by the penetrating darkness. Grace Poole’s room. The old woman, toothless and always accompanied by the faint smell of gin and rum had been paid to do the household’s sewing work. When a child, Elizabeth had been somewhat appalled by her scruffy appearance, but Grace had possessed an unusually sharp eyesight and despite her inebriated state, she had never given them any reason to complain about the quality of her seams and laces.

The door was slightly ajar and she opened it carefully, feeling like an intruder when she saw him sitting on the floor, surrounded by a dozen candles he must have found somewhere between the rubbish and with his eyes fixed on something concealed by his body. Clothes, curtains and blankets were scattered across the room and in a corner, she thought she could see one of Grace’s ever-present bottles reflecting the candlelight. She briefly wondered what had become of the old sewing woman. Had she managed to save herself or had she perished like so many others?

But whatever had happened to her, it didn’t really answer the question Elizabeth was burning to ask: What was he doing here?

„Jack …,“ she whispered, approaching him slowly. When he didn’t respond, she went to his side to see what he was looking at. A chest, very similar to the one they’d found on Isla Cruces, only that this one didn’t contain a heart, but a collection of parchments and notebooks some of which were distributed on the floor now. Jack was holding a map of some sort, while he traced the faded lines with his fingertips, so completely absorbed in his task that he didn’t even seem to recognize her presence.

She blew out her candle and supported herself on his shoulder while she knelt down beside him, unsure what to say or how to begin. He flinched under her touch, still caught up in his own world and it was then her eyes fell upon the missing planks in the floor, revealing a cavity which had obviously served as a hiding-place for the chest.

“This had been your room,” Elizabeth stated as a matter of fact.

“Yes.” His voice was still distant, almost unreal in the sultry atmosphere he’d created around himself, and she wondered whether he would talk about the chest and its contents. When he didn’t show any inclination to continue, still gazing at the map in his hand as if it was holding some indefinable secret for him, she reached out and grabbed one of the notebooks.

It was rather small in size and leather-bound, with an unlabeled cover and well thumbed pages, possibly used as a sketchbook, judging from the coal stains that littered the binding. She looked at him questioningly, unwilling to delve among his private possessions without his permission, but he didn’t seem to care, nodding absent-mindedly when she flipped the book open and started to browse the pages.

It formed indeed a conglomeration of drawings and sketches, faces from a not so distant past, along with animals and landscapes that were done with great accuracy and love for detail, even though the technique might have been imperfect at times. Elizabeth regarded the drawing of an African woman, probably one of the slaves kept in the governor’s household and couldn’t help admiring its liveliness and spirit; it was almost as if the portrait was trying to communicate with her through the faded pages, but unable to stand the accusatory look in the woman’s eyes, Elizabeth clapped the book shut and put it back into the chest.

“We called her Odette, but I don’t think that was her actual name,” Jack said quietly and she startled at his voice, surprised to find he’d actually taken notice of her confusion. “She worked in the kitchen, but unlike the other slaves in my father’s service, she didn’t want to accept her fate. One day, she tried to run away but was caught and brought back again. I don’t know what they did to her.” He paused for a moment, his eyes tarnished with sadness and regret. “They found her body several days later. She was dead, probably jumped off the cliffs but wasn’t lucky enough to miss the rocks.”

“Did you know her well?” Elizabeth asked.

“I helped her escape in the first place. When I started working for Beckett, I betrayed everything I believed in… . No one deserves to be enslaved.”

Swallowing hard, he turned away from her, and she suddenly understood that the privilege of childhood dreams coming to a violent end was not hers alone. He was as aware of his mistakes as she was of hers, and even though she knew he liked to act the carefree scallywag, this was nothing but the façade of a man who’d always fought for his freedom and that of others, never to be rewarded with anything other than deception and betrayal until he’d learned to make them his own weapons. They both shared the grief and disappointment of a rebellion painfully gone awry and if “pirate” was the term to name the state they were in, they shared the brand as well – no matter whether it was invisible, as Jack had observed when they’d argued in the parlour.

She placed her hand on his arm, only covered by his shirt for he’d taken off his coat, and felt the warmth of his skin through the worn cotton.

“Who are you, Jack Sparrow?” she asked softly.

He turned his face to look at her, slowly, almost hesitantly. “Sometimes …,” he whispered, “… sometimes I don’t know myself. Maybe that’s the reason I brought you here. Because I wanted you to tell me.” He was so close now she could feel his breath on her lips.

“You are,” she whispered, bending closer, “a pirate.”