Doth Suffer A Sea Change
She lies in his cot, honeyed blond hair spilling over a canvas pillow and white, sinewy limbs tangled in old, worn sheets. She is asleep.
With her eyes closed, she might well be Elizabeth. But she is not.
James turns back to his charts, weary. It's been years since Calypso came to him; offering this illusion, this drug, in a meager repayment for his eternity. He needs her like an addict needs opium: she lets him remember and forget Elizabeth in the same breath, in the same blink of an eye.
He hates her – the sea has taken everything from him, and left him with this – a cold duty and a mockery of love. He loved Elizabeth, and lost. He still loves Elizabeth. It's what keeps him human, he thinks. But it's driving him insane, inch by inch. Every day, he looses more of himself. His green eyes are fading to grey; his skin is dull and translucent.
His skin is getting thinner, and he's forgetting the feel of Elizabeth.
The sea will wear him down, and take him for her own. It's only a matter of time before he forgets the difference between Elizabeth's smiling brown eyes and Calypso's pitiless dark ones.
(Written for articfox's "Mistaken Identity" prompt on LJ)