Blame the beer (no brandy for me). It's late. I miss this show.
Shame I can't add anything substantial to Sophia, not until we know what happens next. *sigh*
The following was whipped in a spare hour (or five) inspired by ever entertaining tweets of SonOfHorace and Horaces3rd.
(Review responses at the very end!)
oOo
There was a storm; it seemed at sea there always either was one, or they were waiting for it to come. This time, it caught them at the worst time, just before the sunrise, when everyone dreamt of warmth long seeped away by the night. James was curt and fast, shouting orders and getting every capable hand on deck to manage the waves and battle their deaths.
Just one day longer. Just until he realizes his plans.
It was over like a bad dream, leaving them drained and drenched, shivering with cold and pent up energy of the fight, bodies twisted with strain.
Napoleon purred as he pressed to his boots, asking for a pat. James hid a smile and looked around to make sure no one saw him scratch the beast's throat. Soon, Lorna will find another dead rat as a token of affection. He uncorked the bottle he brought with, sipped slowly, brandy mixing with stew they had for dinner.
The battle left him unbalanced, more than he usually was. Something kept shifting around him, thoughts coiling in his head muddled with more than just intoxication. The dead screamed at night, but now waves were louder than the ravens... At least until the dark was still a few hours away.
At the helm, Bill fiddled with some chains, the links clinking in a staccato rhythm as they fallen to the planks. The sound was carrying well on salty air, as if James was standing right behind, as if the metal was rattled just beside his ear.
Wound around a neck, tying dark limbs to a wall, barring passage leading to life…
The dead screamed at him, but he waved over their nagging, murmuring spells and curses in all languages that came to mind.
He swallowed another gulp of brandy, blinking to clear his eyes of tears. One voice in the chorus of souls still haunted him. He wanted to rejoice end of torment, but his own conduct forbid it. There was no regrets for him. No blaming him for the madness that ate away at delicate tissue of Zilpha's mind. The Delaney curse was their cross to bear, and her soul was too pure and delicate to fight the insanity that killed their father. If she would come with him, all those years ago, or even now he would lover her like no other; but her life would still be a chasm of pain and disgrace. She hid her true nature even from herself and it killed her, every day, piece by piece.
Love was no saviour from their madness.
He sighed, noting how sun laid close to the horizon. Should he turn in for the night, give his men respite from his violent presence? Maybe he ought open a channel for his beloved, to try and invoke her to talk to him again, to rid himself of the poison that entered him in the morning and nestled somewhere he couldn't reach alone. He would close the door and sit on the floor by his bunk, tracing lines on dusty floor, catching splinters in his fingers and using the pain. Eyes closed he leaned his head back thinking about her.
In his mind Zilpha was young and fresh, her skin creamy expanse of velvety softness, marred only by lines he made, consuming moonlight so hungrily, that the reddish paint seemed pitch black…
The attraction was a devil in disguise.
Unbidden, the woman assaulted him again, memory vivid and pleasant like a tranquil dream.
The Crow cackled from its perch up on the railing.
"James?"
Another harpy here to take a chunk of his soul. He thought naught was left, but even the miniscule amount was apparently plenty for them to give away.
He grunted deeply in acknowledgement of her presence.
"Atticus wants to stop for provisions soon."
Another grunt, biting back more vocal response of not giving a fuck. They had an arrangement and it was clear; all seamen saw same signs and interpreted them same ways, without the need to consult the captain more than necessary. The course was charted. If there would be a need for the ship to dock, she will. Not too long, not too often.
What was Lorna's real goal in informing him of this moot thing?
"I think you should change the contents of your bottle."
There it was. He raised the object in question to inspect brandy sloshing gently in dark amber of the glass.
"Whiskey is for business, rum is for fucking. I'll stay faithful to this one."
Even though he did remember a fuck he acquired with help of a good bottle of brandy, a while ago, a second, just a pocket of time behind him. The rainy afternoon in Bedlam, shared drink, then more at the tavern. Slim body slithering under a shift in enticing dance, agile like a serpent, smooth and soft and welcoming. Tempting him, making sins come to him in waves of want. First a savage beast, then a sophisticated man, and last time in all his honesty, as a drunkard enjoying servant of the same god.
If she truly was a bacchante he probably would not have head still attached to his neck, or his rotten heart would long be ripped from his chest. As it was, he felt a sharp pang of memory in the traitorous muscle, remembering fleeting conversation they shared on their way back to town.
She had a cabby waiting for her, and James entered dark and dusty interior after her trailing skirts, when his horse has been trusted to a confidant. The cabin rocked and shifted on uneven road, prattle of rain drumming over their heads, mixing with splash of puddles sloshed with wheels.
He thought of fucking her then and there, but the mood of the place they just left still hung heavy in the air.
"Some people say you're a charlatan."
James only grunted in response, smiling under his beard. He waited for inevitable following questions. Her lips twitched silently in mocking response, as if she saw him, even though her eyes were glued to the curtained window all the time.
"Ask me," he rasped.
She turned to him then, a tilt of her head and inclination of raised eyebrows indicating her bemusement.
"They used to call me a witch," she said instead.
"And are you?"
She shook her head, sad eyes shifting down to the tattoos peeking from behind his shirt.
"There are no witches anymore."
Oh, how wrong she was if she really believed that.
"Also, another thing men are safer at. If someone really thinks you're a sorcerer you will get terrified respect and tentative awe. I would get stone in the face and a dozen unsavory offers."
"But you like fucking," he reminded, caressing smooth silver of his pocket watch in an absentminded gesture.
She chuckled, turning back to the window, sliding her eves over his palms on her way.
He remembered smiling then, felt his lips twitch in a chuckle now too.
Was this a spell she put him under? Pretending not to believe him, but in reality braiding cords around him, building a net of lies and wants, dreams and memories, everything so pleasurable and fleeting he only now reflected on how consumed he was with it?
Like a fly, drowning in sweet nectar, finding itself slowly being digested by the very thing that it gorged on.
"What was that?"
Lorna was still standing beside him, frowning at something he said.
"Nothing."
"You should stay in your cabin if you intend to spill poppycock all day again," she warned with a sigh.
Maybe he really should listen to her. Time displaced around him. One second he was drenched in bloody sunset, rising bottle for a swig, then he found himself lowering it, brandy burning down his throat, in the dead of night.
The sea called to him, mass of dark waves rippling under the shimmering glow of the moon, enticing with whispers of the dead. He remembered a day, not long past, when he felt like he was drowning, ripples of pleasure overwhelming his consciousness. Was this how dying would feel like? If life was a torment, was the big death a more intense version of what was perceived as the little one?
He wanted to think of Zilpha, he wanted to stay with the dead, but his mind betrayed him, again drawing out the unwelcome memory of the woman to the fore.
With an impatient scowl he drained the remainder of brandy in his bottle.
"Here."
Godders was standing behind him, shy smile slimy like a snail. Hand calloused and chafed from working with ropes and metal was stretched towards James. A fresh bottle.
He accepted it with a nod and a grunt. They drank together, silently, trapped each in his own musings.
The man was loyal; that was his only redeeming quality in James's eyes. Dedication of this calibre was rare, even among overs. And he never indulged him, never gave him more than a fleeting touch, a suggestion, an inclination of his head while resting on the bed…
"You told me once I am half a man."
This wasn't something James was interested in talking of. Wallowing in self-pity was barely endurable when he done it himself, for others to turn to him he has little patience.
"We are all half-something. If anyone would be whole-something it would be too much to bear. Too perfect, too intense. We are all a sum of our experiences, multiplied by our habits, and they are certainly never homogenous. So none of us is really just one thing."
Godfrey gasped, and laughed bitterly into chill of the night.
"You can't warp what you said then. I remember that night. It wasn't meant in this solicitous spirit, and you're not going to convince me now you meant it as anything else than an insult." His lips shifted into a scowl, brows furrowed as if he was in pain. "It doesn't matter much. I'm used to it anyway."
"Why did you bring it up then?"
"I still don't know why you brought me along."
What could he say?
"It's not a reward for your loyalty, but a recompense for your services. I have a use for you still."
"You'll never use me in a way I'd like you to," Godfrey whispered. "Do you have anyone you indulge with? I know your sibling is out of the question, regardless of what anyone is saying."
"You know,"James smiled coldly.
"Lorna talks."
He knew as much.
"She is concerned with your welfare."
"She has her intentions regarding me, I am aware." One must have been blind not to see the puppy like devotion from her.
"Yet, you seem indifferent," Godfrey inquired further like James was a man who would ever answer.
"I am indifferent." The confirmation meant nothing. He would not explain himself to anyone, least of all Godders.
"But you enjoy her kindness."
"I do not deserve it."
"What else do you enjoy, that you don't deserve?"
"Sleep."
This time Godfrey's laugh was more genuine, a carefree and honest note deepening his voice.
"You always were impossible to talk to."
He left him alone on the deck, swaying slightly on his feet, still looking over the sea. Watching the moon, bright and pale, hanging high over them all, a beacon in the dead of the night. But as a sailor, James knew that there were other lights on the tapestry of the sky, ones which showed only when the sun and moon vanished. Velvety darkness had its secrets and James knew all of them.
He closed his eyes remembering how filtered shimmer caressed pale skin covered in blood black marks. How he smeared those lines, how he added crimson of fresh blood to the mix. He wondered how did the bruises look on slender neck he carelessly abused, how dark hickeys blossomed along them.
That first night he wanted a woman who wouldn't ask him anything; not his name, not any favours, not the contents of his heart.
She made him come back twice for the nectar of her desire.
She was an enchantress indeed.
Tiredly he turned towards the entrance below deck. His schooner was big enough to grant some crew members separate bunks; he enjoyed his solitude in sparse captains quarters. Scaling dark corridor he made a ruckus, tipping slightly over his shoes, stepping on Napoleon once and chafing his shoulders on the walls. All doors on his way were locked, to his good fortune, otherwise he would visit someone with a bang of wood hitting wood and demand for another bottle or a chat. Or both. It happened before.
As it was he reached his cabin, dark like the rest of the world. There was a half emptied bottle on his bedside table, wedged safely between books and remnants of meals. He tore the cork out and gulped down a greedy mouthful.
Zilpha. He wanted to commune with her, but his day was stolen by the succubus that haunted him for days now.
He turned, ears picking up slight shuffling behind him. Rustle of clothes?
"Hmm. I see you… Lurking at the… My door. Make yourself known… Bring me another bottle."
No one answered.
Weird, even for an apparition.
He sat down on his bunk, craning his neck to turn unseeing eyes to the uneven ceiling.
If he'd waste his time to learn the identity of the woman, what would happen then? Would he offer her a place on his ship? Would he include her in his ploy, if she proved to be useful? Or would he leave her back as she was, safe in London, fucking strangers and hiding her volatile nature under porcelain like exterior?
There are no witches, she said.
How could she deny that, when she silenced the screams in his head whenever they met? When he felt calm and balanced, floating together with her on warm waters of pleasure, equal in desire and their wish to fulfill it?
His breath came out in ragged pants, remembering, again and always, mind supplying every detail with startling accuracy.
Another swig of brandy spilled on his tongue, warm like her blood. She let him drink it, taste her in any way he wanted. He remembered, even now, how her cunt tasted under his mouth, how her juices smeared on his beard, keeping her fragrance with him even as he returned home, as he returned to his damned plot. He let his palm smooth down his stomach, in the same way she caressed him with her small hands, gripped his cock just as she did. He bit on his forearm, to get a shadow of pleasure he felt when he left his teeth clamp on the side of her neck, the skin between his jaws salty instead of sweet.
Would her skin retain it's taste here, on the sea?
He worked his flesh, feeling sharp pain beneath his tongue, mouth overflowing with liquid. He would kiss her now, or she'd put her lips to his cock. His free hand grasped at flimsy frame of the bed, and he slid all the way down on his back, lost in the warmth of the night. She would sit on his hips, take him in in her heat, work the wetness around his cock, seeping down his thighs and buttocks. He almost could see her ride him, as pale and lithe as a ghost, wantonly bouncing her body to get the most from him. She would grab her breasts, pressing fingers in supple flesh until it creased in dents, or twist her nipples, straining for touch, perfect for licking and biting.
James moaned, spilling to the memory of delicate fragrance of irises overwhelming him when he pressed his face to silky tresses fanned on the sheets.
Even when she wasn't there, she succeeded in calming his mind. The ravens watched him from corners of the room, curious about the prolonged silence of the dead.
He blinked, sober in a way he wasn't for days now.
There are no witches.
"Begone! You continue to torment me you evil serpent but they will not listen to you! Their souls are mine! Nailed in, strangled in chains!" he shouted into the night.
It felt like he was chained; caught in the net of hair, and blood, and irises.
oOo
And here my favourite exchange from the aforementioned Twitter accounts:
[James is the one who wanders into Geoffrey's bunk at night. Geoffrey said, last night James carried on about slaying serpents and wig-eating.]
[Someone did not remove my boots. I could not sleep, and there was only one cabin door unlocked. A mere accident of a drunken man]
:D
Some review responses, using this opportunity:
Rasha007: Yeah, it was the end, until now. ;) I wouldn't mind James taking 'Sophia' across the pond and then "getting lost" somewhere in Bermudas, however it was not meant to be. I can't wait to see what the plot of season 2 will be like...
Demaris Jones: I was absolutely enthralled by your summary of Delaney; it is true he doesn't tip the scales either way. Although I think we may seem some indications towards the supernatural explanations. For me it all boils down to one character - Jamese's mother. She will be the key, methinks.
sxevlbtch: Well, a little something is here. But I dare not touch Sophia now, least I spoil the fun of writing along with watching the show. It was thrilling, trying to capture the ambiance of the tale and building a separate narrative around it. Not that there was much plot in my tales, but still... You get my drift, I hope. ;)
xbellaboox: Thank you so much! I really enjoy reading characters that are not OOC, so actually succesfully writing one is double the pleasure. Especially since I never can judge for myself.