Veracity

By Dream Descends

…

"We shouldn't do this."

"That's what you said last time, love."

…

Elizabeth had felt sadness, in her life. She had felt pain, and jealousy, and hate. She had known heartbreak, and languished in the throes of bereavement.

She had never known frailty.

Her every emotion had been a fiery, passionate tempest, expressed without limitations or reserve. Now, she examined her long, thin fingers, and, for the first time, knew weakness.

Morning sun filtered through the damask curtains, a bright shaft of white light beaming on tawny curls. Elizabeth was sitting up in her bed, leaning against the headboard, a silk-cased pillow protecting her back from the stiff cherry wood. The harsh acuity of the sunlight accented the redness rimming her eyes, the ashen pallor of her complexion.

She had not slept for days. The doctor had told her anxious father and guilt-ridden husband that it was common in women who had recently birthed a babe, and would pass in time.

Elizabeth wondered how common it was for women to gaze into their child's eyes, and not know whose eyes they were.

Yet, she did know whose eyes they were. She knew exactly whose eyes they were. She simply couldn't face the truth.

Those dark, wide eyes that captured her just like the father's had—though in an entirely different sense. Capturing her, luring her into their depths, and then releasing her to lose herself inside of them; an endless, shadowy labyrinth of seduction…and over time, something infinitely sweeter…

The sharpness of the memory still startled her, when she reached into her thoughts and plucked it out for the hundredth examination; hoping, praying, for some sort of sign that would tell her—

His calloused fingers grazed her skin, and she shuddered. Only a memory, she told herself, breathing unevenly. A good memory, to be certain, but only—

His lips darted this way and that, consuming every square inch of tingling flesh, delighting her in a way she never thought possible.

In the beginning, she had told herself it was the possibility of being caught that caused the thrill, not the man himself—no one but her husband, no one but dear Will could elicit such feelings.

In the end, she had spiraled so far down that she had been on the verge of leaving with him, the morning after.

With trembling hands, she reached over to her bedside table and drew the hand-mirror to her face. Her feeble strength caused the looking glass to wobble and dip. It frightened her.

Her reflection disgusted her. She pinched her sunken cheeks to regain some colour, and helplessly tried to smooth the tangled ocher tresses that cascaded over her slouched shoulders. It would never do.

No man could love, or should love, such a hideous vision of misery. Her heart swelled with sudden gratitude for Will, who sat at her side for hours on end, murmuring comforting promises, helping her hold their baby—the baby. The child Will believed without doubt to be his.

The child was a boy, healthy and vigorous. His head was covered with only a dusting of brown hair, and his nose was his mother's. The eyes were not. Nor were they Will's.

The door opened, stirring her from her reverie. She turned, endeavoring a smile, wanting desperately to please Will. It was not Will.

"Hello, Elizabeth." His voice was gruff, nervous. He gave her his signature lopsided grin, but it was a half-hearted attempt. His face fell as soon as he took in her condition. "I'm sorry," he blurted out immediately.

"Jack," she murmured hoarsely, her pulse racing in a way it hadn't for months—nine months, in fact. "Don't apologize."

He came and sat in the chair her husband usually occupied, and put his head in his hands.

"Will…?"

"He's at the smithy," Jack informed her, not making eye contact. "I thought it best to come around when he wasn't here."

"The servants will talk," she said feebly.

"Curse the bloody servants to hell."

They shared small smiles. It was something like before, coated in sadness and uncertainty. Elizabeth broke the silence.

"It's yours," she told him bluntly.

Jack's gaze flickered instinctively from her face to the cradle, on the left side of the bed. He didn't look surprised; rather, a look of seemingly unendurable regret crossed his finely chiseled features. "I felt it," he whispered, his roguish accent stronger than ever. "I felt it on the Pearl—I had to come, to see…it…him?"

"A son," Elizabeth agreed, inwardly touched by the hope his countenance reflected. "You may hold him, if you like."

Wordlessly, the pirate got to his feet and cautiously approached the cradle. His face went blank as he gazed inside, and he stood over it for a long time, without speaking. Elizabeth was only dimly aware of the tears that coursed over her sallow cheeks.

Finally, Jack carefully took the infant from its bed, and rocked the boy in his arms. He retrieved his seat at Elizabeth's side, but his eyes were locked on his child. "His name?" Jack asked throatily.

"William Radcliffe Turner, after his grandfather and great-grandfather."

"Turner," Jack choked out. "William Turner—yes, of course."

"I'm so sorry, Jack," she cried softly, pivoting her head so he wouldn't see her weep.

"He'll have a better life than I could ever give 'im," Jack said quietly. "There isn't anything to be sorry for, love."

"Please don't call me that," Elizabeth whispered. A gentle hand stretched over and brought her head back to face him. Jack's eyes were glittering with unshed tears, and stronger compassion than she had ever seen in another human being.

"I'll call you love, 'cause that's what you are, Elizabeth; you're love, and there isn't anything neither of us can do about it."

Elizabeth slid her hand over his, and grasped his palm tightly. He squeezed back. "We can hide it from Will," he continued. "We can spare the lad, if we can't spare ourselves."

"Depriving you of your son—"

"I'm the godfather, remember?" He grinned again, and this time a bit of his old cheekiness returned. "No, Elizabeth, I'm not meant for a son. Will, he's only ever wanted a family to take care of. Let him have what he's always dreamed of. I've already betrayed a good friend too many times."

"I'm not guiltless either, Jack," Elizabeth protested, anguished. "I can't go on, knowing what I've done to him…keeping such a secret…"

"You have to—" Jack said, anger flooding his voice. Then he paused, and raised her hand to his lips. "God, do it for your son, Elizabeth, if not for Will."

Elizabeth paled. "I…"

"I know," Jack said patiently.

"No, you don't," Elizabeth persisted stubbornly. "I never said it, I never told you how I—"

"Words won't do us any good now, love," he told her, and she knew it was true.

The babe was placed back in his crib, and Jack kneeled next to Elizabeth before he left. "This is the last we'll speak of it, you hear? No more regret, no more memories—we'll move on, and you'll be goddamned happy, alright?"

Elizabeth nodded. Then, taking his face in both hands, she pulled his head up to meet hers and claimed his lips in a kiss.

It was violent, desperate, and Jack thought it burned more than the brand on his arm. It ended rather suddenly, and he left the room without a backward glance.

Elizabeth left her bed the next day, for the first time in two weeks.

Twelve days later, Jack Sparrow's ship engaged in battle with the navy's Intrepid, and lost. The Black Pearl sunk, and he went down with it.

Fin

Author's Note: Used to be a songfic to Jewel's "Near You Always", but of course I had to change that after May 2005. Please do listen to the song though. :)