Broken Songs
--
The roar of thunder from the storm was music to his ears. Bright flashes of lightening crept through the small crevices from the rotting wooden ceiling, hurling the otherwise darkened cabin into a frenzy of light for a few brief moments; the congregation of candles that surrounded him flickered eerily, as if frightened by the sky's untamed nature, but the shadow of a man in the midst was never fazed.
The haunting tune of his organ often sent chills slithering down men's spines through the dark of the night; a melody so powerful, yet so beautiful that mist often gathered when the musician would pound at the keys. His songs were never peaceful or bound together by passion; always broken songs, strung in place by the intoxicating aura that stitched the notes together.
How can something so numbing be so elegant?
Another flash of lightning from above seared into the room, casting an outline on his partially hidden body. A deep exhale would destroy the dreary silence, as he would cast an upwards glance towards the ceiling; the lightning strike had apparently startled one of his monstrous crew, as there was scampering to be heard over the fate of a fallen crate, which had made a tremendous thud only seconds before. A long, spindly tendril would slither upwards from his beard, pushing the old Tricorn out of his eyes.
The captain always had a fondness for storms, for it seemed to be the only time the organ would sound truly dominant throughout the ship. Seas would churn, and the heavens roar through the Ballad of Davy Jones.
His playing had ceased, and the captain merely sat there, stunned at the small, whimsical lullaby that had countered his own ferocity. The locket was playing again. Shocking blue hues would pierce the darkness at the cursed jewelry, their stern gaze relenting when irises became glass orbs; There was no way in hell that he would let himself cry. Not over her.
His hand would hurl down on top of the locket, shutting it swiftly. Why did he even have the damn thing anymore, after years of listening to it's malicious music?
--
There were many things that Davy Jones had grown to despise, and other things he seemed to hate he hated even more, but there was nothing that he loathed more than the mistakes from his past. A twisted scowl burned on his lips; he was never at ease.
A striking of a match filled the stale, salty air, as it's fresh new flame flickered against the brim of an old pipe. Davy had taken to smoking when deep in thought; why fear cancer when one was already dead? A billow of smoke escaped his siphon, while the ghoul captain left his bench to enter a state of absentminded wandering. The dim, parasite infested hall that led to the mouth of his sanctuary never relented it's unsettling atmosphere, as the dead man stalked. A lone lantern hung on the western wall, gripped by long, spidery fingers in the coral. A face was barely noticeable, but milky eyes lazily slid open as Jones passed. "Captain." was Wyvern's rasping remark. Davy paid little attention to the bound figure in the wall, nodding blankly before ascending the rotting staircase. Behind him the lantern keeper fused back into his place with a sickening crunch.
--
Too many things reminded him of the pleasures he once indulged in before the alterations of the curse. His ship was once beautiful, despite the monstrous and frightening appearance that had coated it over time. As Jones stood in the open, in the midst of his condemned demons, the devil of the sea would let his eyes glaze over the grotesque and decaying state of the wooden planks that constructed his vessel.
The Dutchman was his first ship to captain; constructed at his homeport in Scotland, where every little detail had been taken into great consideration and advance. The wood was crafted from the finest of Yew, gathered from the rolling hills and imported from other European nations, casting the pristine beauty of the ship in a soft white glow….and it was beautiful. Everything was precious, as though something one feared to touch, in fear of harming it's delicate being. It was the first ship he ever sailed by, and most were in envy of it's luster; now, the living feared it's terrifying state, knowing fully well that it could become an undesired grave; The "Wooden Devil Shark", as it came to be known, by the deformed jaws that made it's hull. But it was still beautiful, in a demented way.
--
Calypso.
May he be lashed with burning rods if his mind was set on her one more time, yet Jones always crumbled at the thought of her beautiful, unmarred form. The betrayal of two powers of the ocean was never entirely figured out as to who was held responsible, but it was the burning chains that seared through his chest every night while thundering the music he produced with unparalleled fury. It was the reason he was a cursed, inhuman monster for eternity, and why he still continued to thrive long after Davy ripped his heart out of his chest from bitter sentiment to stop the pain; the reason why his blood that night tasted of a savory, devilish wine as it drowned the floor and stained it red. She was the reason he was bound by fate, broken evermore in a shattered world of grueling pain and distrust for his own self, yet it was the punishment and torture set before him in an unforgiving path that kept him prowling rabid each day and crying like a baby every night.
The lust for sanctuary would never be hushed; the thirst for freedom to a peaceful afterlife only a fantasy never to be quenched, and as the infamous Davy Jones would stand there, in the midst of a raging storm in a rocking sea, he could never feel the kiss of an angel that was watching over him as religious men came to believe. His pipe fell from his lips, the smoke withering in the rain.
There was only one thing he could look forward to, and it was the screams of dying men grasped in his claw, and the broken songs that would be produced evermore.