Okay, after much debate (between the voices in my head) I've decided that I want to find out how this story ends, just as you (hopefully) do. So here it is, chapter eight. A word of caution, however. There is rum, apples, and implied explicit behavior in this installment. You have been warned.
________________________
Ambrosia of the Sea
Chapter 8
________________________
"What do you think it means?"
Her voice was calm, quiet–a sharp contrast with her outburst on the main deck just minutes earlier. After deciding to follow the captain into his quarters, she threw open the door, eyes narrowed and muscles ridged.
But upon seeing Barbossa's slumped form by the window–his face in one hand, his troubled eyes shielded from all–Elinor relaxed as well. He had not jumped at her noisy entrance, nor turned to look at her stiff posture; he only sighed and rubbed his temples, resting against the sill. The woman closed the door behind her in order to save him from the prying eyes of his crew. She knew enough to respect his pride as Captain–to hide his unknowing distress from those who look up to him.
"I have no bloody idea," he admitted solemnly, like a murderer to his crimes, or a scientific genius to the question, "Is there a God?"
Elinor walked slowly toward Barbossa, who now stood taller–one arm wrapped around his chest, the other resting upon it, holding his chin as he thought. His crystal blue eyes dilated as they adjusted to the oncoming darkness of evening. He had the look of a wax sculpture, and other than the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the woman most surely would have mistaken him otherwise.
"'He who taketh from this chest shall suffer among the living as the undead'," she repeated softly, attempting to find hidden meaning within its words. The captain nodded as she spoke–whether agreeing with her correct regurgitation of the verse or wanting her to get through it faster she wasn't sure. "So the curse is real," she concluded, coming to rest behind Barbossa. The man whirled around on her, his eyes darkening before hers, his finger raised at the bridge of her nose.
"We have no proof of that, lass," he said sternly, before turning back to the sea. "Could jus' be another somethin' teh scare 'em all off." He spoke as if trying to convince himself it were true.
"And if it's not?" Elinor asked, sounding more insistent than she meant to come off as. Barbossa sighed again, a feat becoming more eerily difficult ever since the fog rolled in and he retrieved his coins from the chest.
"Then may the powers that be," he started, closing his eyes, "have mercy upon our souls." The captain turned slowly toward Elinor, his eyes softer than she had ever seen them. No matter how hard he fought with himself–trying to believe there was no curse, that he was out for treasure and treasure was what he had found–he couldn't help but be worried. Even concerned, if the word fit.
He held Elinor's gaze until she broke the line, looking down to her hands. She had no words for him. Barbossa inhaled as he limped to his desk, his old injury bothering him more than ever before. Upon sitting he reclined back, stretching his tired legs and reaching his arms toward the heavens. Through the window came a flash of lightning, illuminating a bag of coins lying at the corner of the tabletop. Ever so cautiously, the captain raised a hand and plucked a gold piece from its resting place.
Across the way, Elinor stood with her hand on her stomach. She hadn't eaten all day, and her insides were letting her know. She looked around for her trunk, remembering that she had a few precious consumable commodities tucked away somewhere amidst all her belongings. At least she hoped they were still there.
"I know you're in here," she teased as she threw open the lid of her trunk and rummaged through her things. A spark in her eye hinted at her excitement when she found her prize. "Ah, there yeh are, love," she sighed, pulling a handkerchief out from the bottom of the chest. Unfolding the fabric, a familiar pale green helped to paint a smile upon her lips. Oh how she had missed that sour, succulent fruit. After rubbing the piece on her jacket, she proceeded to consume her favorite food in the entire world.
Upon hearing the customary crush of teeth against flesh, Barbossa raised his head. The sight he met startled him; across the room, Elinor stood cradling an apple–but no apple he had ever seen.
It was...green.
He watched her devour the fruit, salivating unconsciously as the liquid poured from the corners of her mouth, like the sweet ambrosia of the gods. Wondering about where she had pulled it from and about the characteristics of such a fruit, Barbossa pulled himself from his chair and walked slowly toward her.
"What the bloody hell is that?"
Elinor jumped back, obviously not cognizant of the captain's procession toward her feast. She clutched the half-eaten apple close to her chest, as if it were a sacred heirloom of an ancestor's, or her child.
Barbossa stood waiting, his eyes void of all previous emotion about the fate of himself and his crew. They were cold and narrowed, with a hint of curiosity. He looked to the food in the woman's hand, and she followed.
"This is an apple, my dear Captain," she replied, extending her arm and unfolding her hand for him to see. "Haven't you–"
"Of course I have!" he snapped. "But," he started, plucking the fruit from her hand to examine it, "why is it green?" Elinor could not suppress her laughter. She clasped her mouth, stifling the noise while the captain shot her a look. She couldn't believe that a man that traveled as much as he had never seen a green apple before.
"It's a sour apple. My uncle used to have an orchard outside of Penzance. My father would drop me off there for a few weeks in the fall to help with collecting the apples from their trees." She gazed out the window, smiling to herself. "That's where I fell in love for the first time."
The captain raised a brow. "With one of yer uncle's young workers, I suppose?"
"With apples, Captain," she stated, winking at him. Barbossa looked down to the food in his hand. How could this type of apple be any better than the red ones he had always known? Bananas were more of his fruit of choice anyway—convenient really, with Jack and all.
But oh how that juice flowed into his mouth, that delicious liquid that invaded the buds of Elinor's just a few moments earlier. The apple was cold and coarse, tearing across his tongue and the insides of his cheek before turning to soft pulp and slipping easily down his throat. He opened his eyes, licked his lips.
"I think, perhaps, I've found a new favorite of mine," he announced before raising the orb to his lips once more.
"Oh no," Elinor threatened, reaching out. "That's the only one left, and I'm not about to let you have it all." Barbossa pulled back, his eyes suddenly greedy. The woman reacted with a furrowing of the brows. Lightning lit up the skies once more and Elinor caught a glimpse of what she thought was hunger now invading the captain's eyes.
"Then I suppose, seein' as we both wish to indulge ourselves," the glint in his eye frightened the woman, "we should share." Barbossa turned and led North to the dining table through a door at the far side of the room. The eating surface was worn, cut deep with remnants of quarrels and stained with juices of feasts. The area itself was warmly lit, with strategically placed candles residing along a waist-level mantle circulating the room.
The captain pulled out a well-made chair, holding out the fruit for Elinor to take. Sitting adjacent to him, she took a bite, relishing in the sour nectar. Barbossa eyed her with a look she failed to place. Halfway between curiosity and an odd, lustful amusement. After swallowing, she returned the apple to the hand that gave it to her, their fingers gently touching for a brief moment. The captain took his bite, and the process continued.
And then there was one bite left to be taken. Elinor reluctantly gave up the apple for Barbossa to take the last bit; but instead of doing so, he placed it on the table and rose. As he walked passed the woman, she grabbed his arm. He looked slowly down at her.
"Aren't you going to finish it?" she demanded.
"Yes," he stated simply, before continuing his journey back into his chamber. Elinor turned to the apple, her eyes and mouth wide. What was he doing? She strained her ears to hear if he was on his way back. Hearing the opening of what seemed to be a small door–a cabinet, perhaps–Elinor assumed they were not finished.
Barbossa returned, placing a large bottle on the table next to the apple.
It was rum.
Oh, sweet rum! How she had missed that welcome sight–the curve of the bottle, the slender neck, the bubbling foam of the dark liquid. Unconsciously, North licked her lips.
And the captain smiled.
"We will share the last bite," he started, pulling a knife from a hidden pocket, "just as we 'ave shared the majority of the whole fruit." He carved the last bit of salvageable apple from its core and held it loosely in one hand.
"I don't want to share it anymore," Elinor said with a distant tone, her eyes fixed on the rum, "you can have it." She shifted in her chair as the captain pulled the bottle closer to himself.
"Yeh won't be havin' this until we both finish this apple." The woman glared at him.
"Then cut that piece in half and we'll finish it." But instead of following her suggestion, Barbossa placed the blade back into his coat and stuck half of the piece in his mouth, the other half protruding slightly. Elinor's face contorted.
"What's in your head?" The captain rolled his eyes, removing the slice so that he could talk.
"If yeh be wantin' any of this rum, yeh'll do best teh follow the captain's orders."
Replacing the fruit, he leaned forward, arms crossed, brow raised. North looked to the alcohol and frowned.
"You sick, manipulative bastard."
"Pirate, lass. I knew my father." The woman snorted. She thought for a moment, but realized there was no way around the situation unless she humored him. As she leaned forward, Barbossa followed. The lines of age were creeping across his face, rough and dark, like old leather. He smelled of apple juice, steel, and the sea. Elinor's eyes closed as her open lips touched the piece of fruit, closing down and hardly grazing the abrasive lips of the captain. She pulled back quickly, chewing even faster, eyes glued to the bottle.
Barbossa's lips twisted into an evil smile as he handed the rum to the woman, who promptly uncorked and took one long swig. As she came up for a breath, the captain laughed.
"I do believe, Miss North, that you and I will end up in the same bed before this night is over." Elinor nearly spit back up her alcohol.
"I would have to be very drunk to get in bed with the likes of you, Captain," she spat, already feeling her head begin to spin. It seemed forever since she last had a drink. Barbossa snatched the bottle from her hand and took a sip himself. As he pulled the flask away, he let some of the liquid spread across his lips, just enough to make them glisten. North reached for the container, but he just pulled it closer to him, pointing to his mouth. When Elinor registered his implications, she furrowed her brows.
"I could kill you," she gritted, pulling herself up. "Where is that knife?" She reached to probe inside the captain's jacket, in all seriousness wishing to harm him. She hated games.
He took hold of her wrist and grinned.
"There's no stoppin' it, Elinor. You and I both want this."
"Speak for your goddamned self," she hissed, jabbing once more for the bottle. Barbossa took advantage, pulling her onto his lap and pressing his lips to hers.
Oh sweet ambrosia, luscious alcohol.
North ignored that fact that she was kissing the evil captain of the Black Pearl. She focused instead on ridding his skin of the rum she so loved. It was a harsh kiss, by Barbossa's standards; Elinor sucked and licked as if she had let some of the rum fall on her own arm and was attempting to lap it up before it evaporated. When she pulled back, both their lips were pulsing red. The captain smiled and let North have another shot, taking advantage of her now pounding head and pulling the bottle away before she could get a firm enough grip on it.
Things were spinning in front of the woman–something that usually didn't start until after about an hour of drinking, or after eight or so swigs...depending on which came first.
But this was something new. It wasn't just the rum; it was the apple, it was Barbossa. Between the candlelight and her blurred vision she could make out his handsome, strong face. The lines of age were no longer visible; the battle scars had disappeared.
Elinor fought to keep her eyes from watering as her throat burned from the liquor. The captain downed another swig but did not swallow. He pointed to his lips once more, void of any apple slice. North's head swam upon her neck as she tried to focus her vision.
And then she relaxed.
The alcohol seeped into her bloodstream, flowing to her muscles and releasing them from their strain. It traveled to her mind, easing it of its stress and all thoughts and worries. It journeyed to her eyes, which looked to the bottle, and then to the captain.
And then she felt herself kissing him for the second time, absorbing the alcohol from the inside of his mouth. From his tongue and the inside of his cheeks. From his lips and chin.
The next thing she knew, Barbossa had stood–his lips still attached to hers, his chair having been kicked back onto the ground–and Elinor found herself removing his clothing as he did the same for her.
_______________________
The screech of a gull woke Elinor the next morning. She lay in bed, her eyes crusted nearly shut, with sheets wrapped tightly around her tired body. Wincing as she opened her eyes to the harsh light of the morning sun, North looked down.
To her naked body, and a finger tracing the scar just below her collarbone.
She shifted, and felt a body next to her stir as well.
"Mornin'," it said in a gruff voice. Elinor couldn't help but gasp at the sight of the captain's blue eyes gazing into her dark ones. He had been watching her sleep.
He was also without clothes.
"Oh dear God. What have we done?" Barbossa smirked wickedly, looking down and stroking her arm.
"I told yeh we'd end up here."
"JESUS!" she screeched, yanking herself away from him. She fell out of bed, taking one of the blankets with her. Wrapping it tightly around herself, she went to the window. The seagull, which had roused her from her slumber, stood staring at her curiously.
"Go away," she said sternly, enunciating her words as she batted the bird, sending it flying out into the Caribbean air with a shriek.
"Oh come now," came a rough voice from behind her, "don't go blamin' an innocent creature on yer less-than-innocent activities." Barbossa laughed as he wrapped his arms around Elinor, kissing her neck gently.
"I can't believe you took advantage of me while I was intoxicated," she said quietly, tearing away from him with eyes ablaze. Wrapped around his waist was the sheet they had slept in, scars dotting his lean torso. He threw up his arms in response.
"I was just as drunk, woman." It was then that Elinor looked to where they had slept–not only one, but three rum bottles dotted the area, along with a rotting apple core. Her senses came back to her slowly, waking her body and the textures dotting her skin. It was still moist, and glutinous, as if something had been spilled all over her. She brought her arm to her face, smelling, then licking it.
Rum.
And it all came back. Rum. All over. All over her. All over them. She winced–not because it disgusted her, all those events of the previous night, but because she enjoyed it. She remembered the gentleness of the captain, the creativeness of their foreplay.
"Oh God," she said again, her face falling into her hands. Feeling a hand gently push back her hair, she looked up into the face of Barbossa. "It was good, wasn't it?"
"Indeed," he growled, dipping to kiss her. But behind him rose a powerful image, which tore Elinor's attention away.
An enormous sculpture of three faceless women rose from the waters side by side. The woman in the middle held high above her head a thread between her fingers, creating the string of one's life. On her left was the woman who wove the threads together, her demeanor soft and gentle. On the far side was a wild woman with a wicked job–that of clipping the thread once it had completed it's journey. Her hands were tangled with the cut strings of her victims. Elinor followed the carvings up to the bowsprit of a magnificent ship.
One she felt she hadn't seen in years.
Her mouth gaped open; her eyes bulged in their sockets. Barbossa turned and followed her gaze just as the door to his cabin banged opened. They spun at the same time, witness to a proud, dark figure enter the vicinity.
"Well hello again, Captain North."
____________________
Please review.