The Voices In Her Head, a pirates of the caribbean fanfic

Title: The Voices in Her Head

Author: Hajan Rana

Rating: PG for somewhat abstract concepts

Summary: Voices in her head talk during her moment. Then the view changes as the crew is about to set sail. J/E mostly, hints of W/E. Spoilers for DMC.

Other notes: Erm, this is somewhat disjointed and was influenced somewhat by a few of Jean-Paul Sartre's ideas, mostly in the parts about being shackled to others' consciousnesses. Also for those fond of Phantom of the Opera... I was listening to the soundtrack whilewriting this, so if you catch that influence, well, good for you.Starts at the kiss.

It is this moment.

You have always wanted this moment.

The baptism of fire, the submergence into the heat you can not escape, the crossing of the threshold into your own personal, self-customized hell, the point of no return where the blood boils, the blood flows, the rushing and the spinning and the whirlwind of everything inside you while at the same time all things come to a complete

Stop.

This isn't it. No, this can't be. It must be refused, it must not have happened, it must be justified.

Justification.

Perhaps stronger than the lust for freedom, the longing for justification and approval. For no matter how much we say we don't care what other people think, how much we appear not to care, how much others' opinions don't affect us, we are chained.

We are chained to an idea, to the minds and thoughts of others. The shackles clink and you can pretend they aren't there, but they are.

Otherwise 'reputation' would not be a word.

So after coming out of the fire, after returning from the point of no return, you turn your back and walk.

Regal, strutting, dignified, (perhaps not strutting, that gives too much the appearance of arrogance) the walk of one who knows they have done no wrong.

'All the world's a stage

And all the men and women merely players

They have their exits and their entrances

And one man in his time plays many parts'

-William Shakespeare

Walk away from the fire, walk away from the rum, walk away from the man you have chained to his doom.

Well, your doom as well.

For even as you return, something must be left behind.

One can not cross the threshold twice without payment. After all, there is a reason it is called 'the point of no return'.

What price must be paid so that you can have your life, and the lives of others? What did you pay so that you could justify your actions, make it more palatable to your mind, your morals, whatever those may be? What was the cost of leaving him back there on a ship?

Do you owe him anything? Perhaps your 'sacrifice' was not enough. Did he lend you anything to pay off your debt? Courage, perhaps? His own curiosity?

Will painting him in the best light possible repay him? Will ruining his reputation (Clink. Clink. Do you hear the chains rattle? For he had them too, you know. In your eyes, chained to you, why do you think the man came back?) as a pirate but bolstering his reputation as a noble and good-hearted soul fulfill your debt to him?

You hope so. It must. It's all you can give him now. Isn't it?

And what of he you left behind? Not half a day ago you met him, with your lips, with your heart. Is there a debt to be repaid there also?

Perhaps you did not ask for his love, for his admiration, for his worship.

Does it change the fact that he gave it all to you anyway?

As three men fought over a chest, perhaps you hoped that he'd found something more worthwhile, a cause, a dream, something other to hold onto, rather than you.

Perhaps you didn't see the betrayal in his eyes as he looked at you, as you all rowed away. Perhaps you ignored the burning light of a knowledge he didn't ask for in his eyes as he stared at your lips. Lips that you had given him not half a day ago, and had just now given to the other man he perhaps respected and admired almost as much as you.

Your debts must be repaid as well, Elizabeth Swann.

So use your compass. Let it guide you to what your heart truly wants. When the lot of you sail to the shores of the damned to get back his soul and his ship (doubting though, that the two are separate from each other) you will undoubtedly rack up more debts, but perhaps pay off a few in your travels.

You have bathed in the fire, Elizabeth Swann. You have partaken of the forbidden nectar of the gods on rum soaked lips in your search for freedom.

You ship is headed for Freedom, Elizabeth Swann. It is being blown toward Freedom by the winds of Curiosity. Yet you hold the wheel and are in partial control of the anchors of Duty.

Shackled as you are to the approval of others, you have some room to maneuver.

Fare thee well, Elizabeth Swann. Go on your journey. Pay your debts. Settle accounts.

-------------

The words reverberating in her ears start to repeat and fade. Another swig of rum. Red lined eyes now. Can't sleep. Barely eats.

Will looks over. He wants to help her, but he can't. It's not his place. Perhaps it never was. A feeling of inferiority, a caste difference, and veil ripped from (or perhaps thrown over) his eyes and he sees her, not as Elizabeth.

Now he sees her as he once did. She's the governor's daughter.

Not his place to help. For she is no longer Elizabeth to him (perhaps she never was) but she is still the governor's daughter.

She is spirited, a dreamer, a girl in love with pirates.

No, he can not help her. It is not his place.

So as she turns her eyes to the man who followed her like a faithful dog (more of a boy, really) as she seeks him who would salve her wounds always, she find him no there.

There he is. Not looking at her, but looking away, talking to others, refusing to help her with her pain.

For she can sense that, at least, in the way his shoulders are squared and the tenseness of his back that must be turned toward her.

She's now lost him as well.

But she will not buckle, not to him, not to Jack, not to the crew, and certainly not to strange voices in her head.

"Let's go!" Not really a yell, just a loud proclamation, slightly slurred, but sobered by the fire in her eyes (ah, you must have taken some of that fire from your baptism with you). She smashes a pirate captain's hat onto her head (faintly reminiscent of one another captain used to wear).

Barbossa simply smiles. It's good she does not see him. If she did, the amusement in it would probably send her over the edge (Again. For what? At least the fiftieth time?).

"You heard the lassie, —"

Barbossa's orders blur and turn to a dull roar in her ears.

And off they go.

Reviews and such as always, please and thank you.