Fanfiction: Pirates of the Caribbean, DMC

Rating: K

Disclaimer: Davy Jones and Calypso? Me, steal them? Actually- *smack* Borrowed! Borrowed without permission. But with every intention of bringing them back to you! All credit to the big-eared mouse.

A/N: Written for the 'candles' prompt over on the Broken Compass forum. Supposed to be a drabble, but I think I am genetically incapable of writing anything less than 500 words.

Captor of Dreams

The candles sputtered and flickered lower in their dripping sockets. Davy Jones slept on, his shoulders rising and falling in gentle counter-rhythm with the rocking of the ship. The clicking, haunting melody wound down slowly, finally snapping to a stop in the middle of a note, but still he did not wake.

The Captain of the Flying Dutchman was dreaming. He knew this the instant he glanced down at his hands; the hands of a man, not a monster, but he had no desire to inform his senses of this.

He stood on the shore, sand shifting beneath his boots and gazed out at the crystal ocean, unsure of what he was waiting for.

Wind ruffled the surface of the sea and he trembled. Ah. That was what he was waiting for. Fuchsia petals swept over the water, brushing across his coat with an unearthly, enchanting fragrance and the sea shivered. He tensed, watching the water waver like a shoal of frightened fish.

And then She came up out of the water. She glided out of the waves like a seal, flowing into her human form, shedding water like old garments, until She stood before him, naked and perfect, navy-green hair splayed across the sky-blue of her shoulders, the hue of the storm in her smiling eyes.

Calypso.

Her name had barely touched his lips, before She had dashed lightly across the sand and her cool, damp fingers were smooth and perfect against his face.

Calypso.

He wrapped his arms around her, her long, silky hair shifting into the shining black of the island girl he had first met her as, her shimmering skin deepening into a rich tan, her eyes dark and mysterious.

He held her close, whispering her name. Calypso...

Davy Jones awoke from this false-dream to the flutter of dying candles and the silence of a wound-down music box.

He sucked in a deep breath, clutching at the ragged scar he had carved across his chest. That shouldn't have hurt. He had no heart left; a curved metal blade had seen to that. So why did he suddenly feel so empty, why did his chest convulse with phantom pains when he spoke the name...Calypso?

He lifted the music box gently in what had once been his right hand and turned it over. The familiar, comforting strains began where they had left off as he wound it tightly and replaced it on the ledge. The candles spluttered in protest and dripped sluggish wax across the keys. He dipped his head wearily, images spinning behind his eyes like the silver wheel in the box, round and round, slumber stealing slowly like the dying pools of waxen flame. His eyes closed and he reached back to hold the captor of his dreams, to reassure himself that these visions were forever vanquished, the chain that damned him to eternal insensate pain, secure, the one safeguard against that kind of anguish, that kind of love, safe.

A small cry of dumbfounded, agonized rage welled up in his throat and his eyes flew open.

The key. The key was gone.