I don't own anything having to do with Pirates of the Caribbean.
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"All my possessions for a moment of time."
-- Queen Elizabeth I (1533-1603)
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SophiaShe drifted through the hours and days as a living, breathing body, but nothing had substance. Nothing had meaning.
She could not recall anything Charlotte or Elizabeth said when she had returned to the house, her face chapped and tear-stained as if she'd been crying for weeks. It was only the next day that she awoke from her fitful slumber, surprised to find herself in her own bed, her room as cold and empty as a tundra in winter. She had been dreaming.
She was back on the beach, kneeling forever in the coarse sands, waiting.
Her room was an unpleasant shock. If she was still waiting, there was a chance that he could return.
She was not waiting now. Her pillow was damp with tears that she did not remember shedding and she was vacant, completely and utterly blank. Her mind was fuzzy with memories that swirled together, indecipherable, like molten metal. She knew that there was no hope for reunion, now.
She'd come so close to love. Now, everyone she'd ever loved was lost to her. Sophia sank into a depression that did not leave her, that never relented. She could not eat or sleep. She rarely spoke.
Her parents came on the second day after her return, hopeful joy bright on their faces at the prospect of seeing their lively, beautiful daughter again after so long. Sophia was neither lively nor beautiful anymore. Her hair was tangled in knots and her face was tired and blotchy. Something in her eyes had gone out. Now, they were the dull gray of a dreary sky.
Chelsea and Esteban Cuthburt did not know what to do. Even Sophia, in her state, could see that as they hovered at her bedside with concerned eyes and trembling hands. Sophia only said one thing as they came to her side. "Mother. . . Papa." After that she was silent as they tried optimistically to inform her about the happenings in Port Royal in their absence.
They left soon afterwards. Sophia's mother was crying.
She existed. After a month Charlotte and Elizabeth coaxed her out of bed for a brief time, and, after several more lunar cycles, Sophia healed.
Outwardly, she healed.
She went to the market to buy vegetables, visited her family, assisted Charlotte with the cleaning, but the dreamy, sad quality that she had gained in her months abed never disappeared. Sometimes, she could still be found gazing through the window at the sea. She still wept into her pillow before sleep took her.
She remembered everything about him and it was torture. She remembered his voice and his body. She remembered his eyes, black as the charred wood that was left in the fireplace every morning.
They said that she was broken. They said that she had been tormented painfully, that the vicious pirates had killed her spirit. Whispers followed her everywhere. She was the widow who had been kidnapped by pirates. She was scandalous.
She let them believe what they liked. There was no use attempting to stem rumors that only developed by the hour.
Many men approached her—courted her, she supposed—in the years after she returned. They wanted to save her, to heal her, to protect her. The sadness and terrible wisdom in her eyes attracted them. The affection was one-sided.
She was twenty-six, now. Two years she'd lived a meaningless life in this town. She was past her prime, past marriageable age. She felt ancient. Her face would have been smooth if she could erase the tenseness from her features, the grief, but she was old by society's standards.
Sophia did not care much for society's standards anymore. It was a useless mold.
She would have left if she knew where to go. She would have boarded a ship in a minute had she not thought that she would be sending herself on a useless voyage and end up more heartbroken than before. Jack was everywhere. She knew, from experience, how quickly he moved from place to place. She did not allow herself to get her hopes up.
She sent letters. She sent them to any place she ever remembered Jack speaking of. Tortuga, Port Ayuda, even Calcutta. She told him that he should come. James was dead and he should come.
Nellie, his beloved aunt, replied to her with handwriting that was round and friendly, and told her that she had not seen the captain of the Black Pearl.
Jack, it seemed, was busy. He was off, away.
But she lived. She lived and breathed and ate and spoke.
She always remembered Jack, his smile, his gestures, the expression in his eyes when he had looked at her. Time passed slowly, days inched by in minutes. She counted months by hours rather than days.
And, despite telling herself that it was useless, that she would only hurt more because of it, she waited.
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JackJack did not like to dwell in the past. He moved on and simply allowed being alive fulfill him. There was no chance of luxury as a pirate.
But now, because of her, because he had loved, he could not forget.
He realized too late that he loved her. She'd left, it had been weeks, and he still expected to see her face at the end of each day when he returned to his cabin. He still waited for her to come for him in his dreams.
It took nearly a month for him to stop expecting. To stop waiting. To loose hope.
The Black Pearl was everywhere that year. Brazil, to raid the merchant vessels that transported nuts and coffee and chocolate to England. China, to make a business of stealing silks and selling them to the street venders in Spain for high prices. Greece, because it was there. The English colonies in the north, because they were there.
Jack was always moving, always busy, always thinking of something besides Sophia because British navy officials were chasing them or an Indian tea company had discovered that they were cheating them off their profits and wanted revenge.
It was only at night that Jack had time to think of and remember her. He lusted for her even when she wasn't there.
The pain was too much. Jack became a different person. He was more reserved, his characteristic flamboyant gestures lessened, he stopped telling stories. He stopped whoring at the ports. He drank more and usually alone. Women were still attracted to him, still remembered how he used to be, but he would brush them aside.
He would have gone back to claim her if he had not thought that she would refuse. She had a separate life now. She had stability and someone to care for her. Theirs had been only a brief time, quick and passionate.
He refused to go anywhere that reminded him of her. Nassau, Tortuga, Port Ayuda. . . they held nothing for him except dead memories. He would remember only the alley in which he had pressed her to the wall and kissed her, and forgot the favorite prostitute or tavern.
She was gone and yet still managed to control his life. And he hated her for it.
It angered him at times. He wanted to revert back to his old ways, how he was before she had come into his life and left so quickly afterwards. He wanted her to fade. He tried to forget her.
Then he would feel guilty because she had done nothing except love him. She did not deserve his anger.
And the years passed. Time progressed as it always did. Some of his crew forgot her, and some remembered only a pale face, a lock of black hair. Sometimes they would bring up her name casually in a conversation. "Sophia used to do that," or, "D'you remember that woman? What was her name?"
But Jack had memorized everything. He could never let her slip from his thoughts. He could never forget.
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"Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it."
-- Michel de Montaigne (1533 - 1592)
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A/N: So sad. . . Well, as you may have guessed, this is the much-discussed epilogue that never was for The Fortunes of Ektibar. If the inspiration hits me I may add a bit to this, probably in a less stylized style (maybe simple little stories about certain events that happen to either Sophie or Jack). Anyway, I know this may seem rather pointless now that the sequel has come out (Lady Ektibar, it's called, if you are just reading this for the first time), but I figured since I had already written it and only a select few have read it, I might as well post it as a treat for everyone. Yes, I will get back to Lady Ektibar, I promise! I'm sorry I've gotten a bit distracted with Harry Potter! Feel free to hit me, if you so wish!
Also, you may recognize parts of this from the second chapter of Lady Ektibar. Yes, I stole it. So shoot me—it's all my writing.
I hope you enjoy this, everyone. As always, let me know what you think, and if this is your first time reading any of my stuff check out TFOE and Lady Ektibar—it will certainly make this little in-between more logical.