Author: Elske (elskegaderian)
Pairing/Characters: paring - Davy Jones/that woman (implied). Other notable characters - James Norrington, Tia Dalma.
Word Count: 446
Rating: Nothing worse than in the films. (So that's what, PG-13?)
Genre: Angst. Boatloads of it. (It's Davy Jones, after all!)
Summary: Four scenes in the life of Davy Jones.
Disclaimer: I'm only borrowing the characters, written for fun and not profit, etcetera!
Spoilers: Much spoilerage for Dead Man's Chest.
Warnings: ...have I mentioned the angst? It might border on melodramatic, but what do you expect from the man who carved out his heart and locked it away from the world? (:
Notes: The four vignettes move in reverse-chronological order. Just noting this so no-one's confused!
Special Thanks: To this entire community; it's wonderful!
James Norrington doesn’t know why he does it. He knows very well that the heart is real -- but perhaps there is still something of a skeptic about him, because he can’t help reaching out and pressing his hand flat against Davy Jones’s chest, right where the heart isn’t. Through the shirt fabric, he feels a jagged scar, hollow silence. “Did it hurt?” he wonders hoarsely.
Davy Jones’s lips quirk in something similar to a smile. “I don’t remember.”
James traces the lines of the scar with his fingertips. Suddenly his own heartbeat seems absurdly loud. He nods silently in the darkness.
The captain and first mate are standing together as the Dutchman sails off into the night.
There is something beautiful, perhaps, about the golden sands and blue skies all surrounded by the endless sea. Davy Jones doesn’t notice beautiful things anymore; he’s chosen this place because it’s empty and safe and therefore worthy of guarding his secrets.
He has to take one more look at it, just to be sure it’s safe, so he crouches in the sand and pries the box open. The heart thumps dully, and he shivers and quickly shuts the lid. He methodically places the smaller chest into a larger one amongst fading relics of the past, then buries it all under the sands.
The wound where his heart once was is still fresh. Blood seeps through, spotting his shirt, but he doesn’t notice.
“This is the coward’s way out,” Tia Dalma tells him. There’s something disapproving in her voice. It’s too familiar, and Davy Jones closes his eyes.
She’s still there, lingering in all the corners of his mind; he sees her in his dreams every night, hears her voice calling to him on the wind. He’s lost his mind. He’s lost everything.
“I don’t see what a heart’s for, except breaking,” he says.
Dalma laughs. “Very well.”
Davy Jones opens his eyes. The knife is sharp and glittering silver. It’s beautiful, he thinks, pressing the blade into his skin.
Somehow the world keeps turning, but she’s gone and all that he’s left with are wilting roses, his love-letters, the tinny melody from a tiny music box. She’s gone. Everything is lost. Once he was a great man; now he is nothing.
He wonders if anyone’s ever died of a broken heart. If not, Davy Jones will be the first, he thinks. The pain is unbearable, but yet his heart betrays him, keeps beating. He traces a crooked line against his skin, thinks what a wonderful thing it would be to get rid of it. It’s of no use to him anymore.