Tragedy
AJ Wonkette
Summary: A story most beautiful and sad about a man most ugly and horrible. But once, yes, once he was handsome…
Disclaimer: I don't own it. I do, however, own the soundtrack to it.
A/N: This came to me the moment I first played the third song on the soundtrack. It begged to be written. And so, putting that particular song on repeat, I complied.
New Note (8/15/06): Upon seeing the movie again, I realized I'd gotten a few details wrong, so I went through and changed some things to make it more accurate. Also I was able to edit some typos. Go me! Umm, I also have like, kind of a title picture up on my deviantart site, but it is also non-accurate. Stinking unique locket…
Feedback: The compass points to it.
"I want you to love meHe whispers, unable to speak
And he wonders aloud why feelings so strong
Make the body so weak."
-Nickel Creek, "Green & Grey"
Once, he was handsome. Once, he was quiet and refined, a gentleman at any cost. Once, he could smile his way into parties thrown by the highest of classes. He could charm anyone to bend to his every whim, if he so desired. He was tall and elegant. Every step he took was confident, full of grace and power. His secretive yet knowing smile could melt the coldest of hearts, and his deep blue eyes were as deep as the sea, and would stop any woman dead on the streets. And this enchantment took place before he even opened his mouth, from whence his silver tongue poured forth poetry and words of romance the likes of which no one had ever heard, nor even dared to dream of. More amazing still was when he would sit down to a piano or an organ. His long, elegant fingers would easily fly over the keys, passionate music captivating anyone who could hear it.
Yes, David Jones had a gift. A wonderful one. He was a lowlife, a gutter-born child left to fend for himself. He grew up dependent on his own cleverness, to become one of the most feared pirates. But if he were to set foot in the home of a nobleman, no one would ever know. He was graced with a gift for instant nobility and charm. For years, it got him many things and into many places.
In a single moment, it all became worthless. Because once… once he loved.
His silver tongue turned to lead in his gaping mouth, his graceful fingers faltered, and his deep eyes saw only one thing: Her. The girl. Woman. Goddess. She was unlike anything he'd ever seen, beautiful, mysterious, enchanting. She sauntered past him with a mocking, knowing grin. Her near black eyes beckoned for him to follow her. He stood and proceeded to do so, to the great surprise of his hosts. This woman was no princess, no duchess, nothing noble at all, though any one of these he could have had in an instant, were he to try. No, this girl was naught but a slave girl. An amazing, beautiful goddess of a slave girl.
"What, Davy Jones, have you a chain stuck to you?" The first words he ever heard her speak. If any other woman had asked that of him, he would have had a thousand answers to choose from. He would have spoken poetry to her, of the chain that linked their hearts, their very souls for all eternity. But he couldn't' say a word. She smiled and took his hand. Moments later, he found himself seated beside her, a cup of tea in his hands, the both of them talking as though they had grown up together.
In that afternoon, David Jones was condemned to a horrible fate. He did not then know it. All he knew was her. He bought her from her puzzled masters, set her free, and found her a place so secret, no one would ever bother her again. He bought her rings and jewelry, sending them from all over the world, along with long letters of his love. He fought great men for her, he stole precious treasures for her, he used every bit of his gift of charm to woo her.
But everything he did was met with denial and crucifixion. He would return to her, many weeks and many treasures later to find her laughing, as always.
"Why you giving me so much for, sweet Davy?"
"Because I love you," he would proclaim, always. "With all that I am."
And then she would laugh again. But never would she accept a proposal. Never would she return his ardor.
"You don't love me, Davy Jones." She'd say with a smile. "You have one love, and her name is Sea." He would then tell her that she was the sea, in all its beauty and magnificence, and then he would leave. She wrote him letters, told him stories, remained his confidant and his friend, but no more would she give him than that.
Years passed in this fashion. He came time after time with a new gift, a new song, a new argument, and was denied every single visit. Slowly, it began to eat at him. Slowly, he grew cold, in all ways but toward her. This caused her to draw away from him even more than ever, though she loved every gift he gave her, every story he told, every song he sang, and every visit he made to her.
He grew tired of this game, Davy Jones did. She weakened him, she tore away at his very core. He loved her so, yet she would no more be his than anyone else's. She had been chained too long, she said, she must remain free forever. She was as changing as the sea, always new, always moving, every time he saw her. And like the sea, she crashed against his heart. He vowed to forsake her, to stay as far away as he could, never to return.
But one dark night, he found himself at her doorstep, a palm-sized silver heart in his outstretched hand. He presented it to her, producing a key and turning it. The heart opened and a tune most magical began to play, a tune full of longing, of love, of beauty. This, he explained, was the sound of his heart reaching always toward hers. She smiled at him, and asked him to wind it again. He complied, winding it as far as it would go. She stood from the table and danced, danced most beautifully. He watched in awe for what seemed like a moment of eternity. Then he, too, stood, and took her hand. Together, they danced. It was the most magical thing he had ever felt. They seemed as one, twirling and gliding about her candle-lit home. She flowed like water in his arms, grace and beauty shining from every step she took, from every miniscule turn of her head, from every slightest movement of her arm.
On and on they danced until the music box slowed and finally came to a clicking stop. She looked up at the great man before her, to find his face pale, and his captivating eyes wide.
"You must love me." He said, his voice full of desperation, surprising them both. She pulled away from him.
"I must? I must do nothing, Davy Jones!" she replied harshly.
"Without you, I fear I am nothing." He explained. "Without your gaze upon me, I dwell in darkness. Without your voice gracing my ears, I am deaf. Without your touch, I grow cold. Without your love. . .I grow empty."
"It is not our destiny," she said, "I will remain free, never bound again."
"You wouldn't be bound, I would let you be free, just as I did when I met you. Please." He pleaded with her.
"Don't speak this way. I don't want to hear it!" she snapped. He reached out and stroked her cheek. The hand which did so had held the sword and the pistol which had taken many lives, and given the signal to destroy many great things, but now, now it trembled.
"I can't go on like this. If this is how it shall always be, with my love unreturned, I must leave. But if I do—if I leave now, I shall never return to you, Tia. Never again." He said, his usually strong voice shrunk to a whisper. She said nothing, just stared at him silently, unmoving. He turned and began to take slow steps toward the door. Each thump of his boot on the wooden floorboards begged her to stop him. Every step he took broke his heart a little more. He paused for a moment in the doorway, and turned to look at her, his once beautiful eyes turned dull with sadness. Still, she watched him intently. Still, she said nothing. He took a breath to speak, then closed his mouth, and with a final glance, turned away from her, never to look upon her again.
The crew of the Flying Dutchman noticed the change in their captain instantly. He was driven by love, always, a trait which they put up with only because his desire to please his lover led them to the finding of the greatest of treasures. But now, it seemed those days had come to an end. Their captain commanded them to make sail for somewhere far, and then locked himself in his cabin. There he stayed for days, poring over her letters to him, searching again and again for a glimmer of hope. Over and over he played the tune of his music box, one identical to that which he gave her. Each time the tune played, it seemed to echo his pain more and more. Each note seemed to accentuate the throbbing pain each beat of his heart caused him.
A storm came upon the Flying Dutchman two weeks after setting out from the captain's lover's hideaway. The captain himself didn't' even notice. The storm that he was fighting was his own. It had finally come to a climax, the pain to great for him to bear. He threw down the bundle of letters, grabbing a gift she'd once sent him, a beautiful blade with an ivory handle. Cursed, she'd said it was, though how so, she had not heard. A lovely mystery, wasn't it?
"I can't take this anymore!" he cried. "My heart belongs to you, and only you, and it is all I have to give! Take it, damn you!" And with those words, he plunged the blade into his chest.
Staring at his reflection in the glass on the wall before him, he grasped the handle of the blade and began to carve. He bared clenched teeth, but no tears came to his bloodshot eyes, and no sound of agony came from his lips. The physical pain was nothing to him, as the pain inside his breast was far greater than anything he would ever have to endure in the physical world. Slowly, precisely, he cut out his own heart. To his dull surprise, he did not die. He found his most secure chest, and unlocked it. He emptied it of its worthless treasures and placed his severed heart into the bottom of the chest. For a moment, he simply stared at it, the bloody organ continuing to beat to the tune of the music box. With a great scowl, he slammed the chest shut and locked it once more. He then strung the key on a cord, which he hung about his neck, noticing but not caring that the incision he had made was already healed.
Calm, solemn, and absolutely cold, Davy Jones stepped out onto the deck of his great ship. Every man there stopped what he was doing to stare at him. For weeks, they had endured the absence of their broken-hearted captain. Talk of mutiny had begun. But there he stood, a small chest under one arm. In the sudden silence, a soft noise emitted from the chest. A quiet, steady sound like a. . . a heartbeat.
"Fetch a larger chest," Davy ordered, "And bring it to me. Make for the nearest island you can find." All was done as he said, for something in the man had changed that showed in his face, that none dared oppose him. But the men whispered; when Captain Jones had stepped onto the deck, the raging storm had quieted. Something had changed him, they said. He had mastered his own heart, and with it, the sea.
They set upon land, and Davy Jones buried his love. His heart in its box went into a larger chest, buried under the letters and gifts from his beloved, and this chest was locked and buried deep in the sand. It was the last time he would ever sleep on dry land. He now had no reason to return to the shore, and furthermore, found he could not. In mastering the most untamable and complex part of himself, he had indeed mastered the sea, and thus became a part of it. He could not set foot on land, save once every ten years, when he dug up his heart, to bury it somewhere new. Eventually, his mastery of his heart earned him the mastery of the Mighty Kraken. In return for this power, the Sea Lord demanded that Davy give him the souls of stranded seamen. He gave them the choice to either serve on his ship, or be sent to the Sea Lord himself.
Over time, Davy Jones's graceful fingers fused together into horrible claws. His handsome face faded away into the haunting visage of the Kraken itself, his charmed smile hidden by always writhing tentacles. His silver tongue became tarnished due to ill use. All that remained of the young man who had claimed many a girl's heart was his deep eyes, still piercing, still knowing, but colder than they were once, long ago. And his heart remained buried, locked away. . . still beating only for her. The slave girl, the enchantress who turned him into a monster long before any other transformation took place.
Once, he was handsomer than any man. He became horrible and ugly, the mere sight of his face sending men frightened into their graves. Once, he loved more fiercely than most ever dream of. His heart was stolen from him. Once, he was a man. He was transformed into a heartless monster. All for the love of the one thing that causes any man to do what he mustn't. All for the love of a woman. All to be hers. All in vain.
Once, he loved, and fought for his love, took every breath to glorify her. Now, he haunts the sea, reaping souls and causing uncountable, unspeakable horrors, cold and heartless.
There are many stories of the Dreaded Davy Jones. They speak of his horrible visage, they speak of his great power, of his ship, and of his Kraken. But never of his love. Never of his passion. To this day it remains, though there be few that know it.
But, it is said that every so often the infamous pirate captain locks himself in the cabin of his cursed ship, when the ghost of his heart troubles him. He finds a silver music box, in the shape of a heart, no bigger than the palm of a man's hand, and winds it. The tune once meant to proclaim a man's love, now soothes a monster's broken, tainted soul. The passion, the romance, the love he once had then flows from him and can be heard in the haunting tones of a great organ, exploding out into the world in a torrent of longing and anguish. Everything he once was pours itself into those notes, played furiously and passionately, expressing the emotions he can no longer feel, but can remember as though they were a dream.
They say the tale of Davy Jones is a horror, a ghost-story. But it is, in truth, a tragedy. The tragedy of a woman who would forever belong to no one, and the man who belonged to her completely. That, children, is the true tale of Davy Jones.
Fin.
A/N: Just a one-shot, inspired by a three-minute song. I would very much like to know what you thought of it. Peace.
AJ