Chapter Text
How do I even begin to move on?
The low-burning fire provides no advice, no solace, no comfort. Just heat and a dull wash of orange light that paints shifting brushstrokes across the presented face of everything in her private sitting room while drenching all else in flickering shadow. But even the heat is not enough, for despite swaddling herself in her best dressing gown, draping a woolen shawl across her shoulders, and positioning the high back chair as near the hearth as she dares, Elizabeth is chilled down to her soul.
A somber rumble of thunder adds its voice to the arrhythmic pop and hiss of the indifferent blaze, sonorous and sullen and equally unhelpful. It heralds a long anticipated break in the boiling clouds, which have lingered overhead, growing ever more heavy for the better part of three days. One, two, ten, and then a thousand raindrops patter against the row of windows flanking the terrace doors. The deluge drums hollowly against the roof.
And still there is no answer to her question.
Her gaze remains ensnared by the dancing flames, the glowing embers, the sporadic sparks- until it loses its intensity and becomes something altogether more abstract, as if what she seeks lies not in the fire, but beyond it: through the andiron, the elaborate stonemasonry, and the floor itself. Perhaps deep within the rain lashed earth. Perhaps further.
Whatever the case, it is unreachable. And it changes nothing.
James is gone. And he had the gall to leave her behind.
Elizabeth’s eulogy had been an exercise in ambiguity, rife with double meanings left open to interpretation by the modest gathering of dour mourners, of which there were those that knew him, and those that knew him. His trust...his regard...his private smiles. The latter was a much smaller number, but within their ranks was a smaller number still: those that knew his true calling. A calling he and she had shared. The first real thread that had bound them together. The Hunt.
They’d buried sandbags. A farce committed on holy ground that felt sacreligious for more than just the lie. And as they shoveled the cold, dark soil over the pine box that did not contain his beloved bones, Elizabeth had understood that his true grave would be her heart.
He’d always had some manner of residence there. But now it would be less a home, and more a sepulchre. How macabre.
So much left to do...and now, she must face it alone. Or send for a new partner. Both options are equally untenable.
James was her father’s friend first, an alliance that appeared to outsiders to have been built upon political compatibility and mutual goals, but Elizabeth always knew the truth of it. He was the son her father never had, a living, breathing substitute for the stillborne corpse that made one of her mother as well. She was yet a girl when James inadvertently joined their twice fractured family, but, unlike her father, her inclinations toward him, while similarly open and affectionate, were never strictly familial.
And then, at the tender age of thirteen, she’d manifested her Gift while in the throes of some inconsequential tantrum. A cryptic letter from The Order arrived eerily soon afterward, and James reintroduced himself as a Senior Hunter, offering his services as an instructor and mentor in a way that conveyed it was much less a suggestion than a sentence to be carried out.
Never had a metaphorical headsman’s axe arced so sweet, for it guaranteed her his undivided attention, his vested interest in her development, and his permanent fixture into her life. And, in spite of the gruesome and arduous nature of her new-found fate, Elizabeth secretly rejoiced at the prospect of being the sole object of his indomitable focus.
So, as she worked to become an accomplished lady, she also trained to join the Hunt, learning French alongside archery, music alongside fencing, and art alongside sharpshooting. She learned how to play the pianoforte and how to pick off a moving target at a hundred yards. How to embroider cushions and how to incapacitate an opponent with a single, well-placed blow to the throat. How to dance a quadrille and how to apply enough force to drive stake through layers of cloth, fat, and flesh.
She was a quick study in all she applied herself to, and the many tutors of her more civilized endeavors were duly impressed, generous with their flattery and commendation. But their lofty praise paled in comparison to James’ tacit approval, his subtle encouragement, and the occasional flash of pride in his incalculably green eyes.
Oh, how she had coveted that pride. It spurred her to action more than any vague promise of destiny ever could. She was his dedicated disciple, determined to prove herself worthy of one day fighting at his side. Partners.
And she had. Of course she had. It was what she wanted most in the world, and Elizabeth Swann always gets what she wants. One way or another.
When she was old enough, strong enough, tested enough within the confines of her training that even a perfectionist like James could vouch for her being ready, The Order had granted her an additional boon in the form of an official edict that she must graduate from her training and take her oath as James’ Second. Neither of them were particularly surprised by the decree, and Elizabeth liked to imagine James was at least a fraction as pleased as she was by it.
The subsequent years saw them accumulating success after success. Before his mandated furlough from hunting in order to concentrate on Elizabeth’s tutelage, James had been a Hunter of some acclaim, a veritable ‘Scourge of Vampyrism.’ Together, they exceeded the already towering expectations of him and went on to forge a reputation as the most effective team to ever safeguard their corner of the realm from the threat of evil, due in no small part to the compatibility of their skills.
They were in perfect sync even from the beginning, an extension of one another. Two limbs of the same body. Two lobes of the same mind. Two chambers of the same heart.
As their professional relationship evolved, so too did their casual acquaintanceship. And while time spent with James the Tutor was precious, time spent with James the Man was divine. Elizabeth had adored him from the beginning, for he was handsome and interesting and treated her as if the things she’d had to say were actually important- a rare quality in an adult she wasn’t related to. That adoration only deepened as she grew to actually know him: his manner and habits, his wry humor and rapier wit, his logic-steeped opinions and jealously guarded aspirations.
He was a man of immeasurable depth. A man of inestimable restraint. And everything she observed of his curious innerworkings was a product of carefully detecting the meaning behind his meaning, of dissecting his every word and expression to discern the spirit beneath it. In this way, his previously inscrutable visage transformed into something only she could read. And that familiarity bred an easy friendship. They could converse for hours on nothing and everything, or sit just as long in companionable silence.
But that familiarity began to evolve too, her respect and admiration gaining new scope and form, becoming something altogether more complex and pervasive. Something thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. Something that tainted every move she made and every word she spoke. He may as well have been in her veins.
Desire, she realized. Ever-present and all-encompassing. She wanted more. She wanted him. In ways she had never wanted before.
But duty was too important to James. And he took the professional nature of even the unprofessional aspects of their relationship too seriously for her to believe he’d ever be willing to breach that divide. There had been moments where she’d almost convinced herself he wanted her too, but they were few and always fleeting.
It would have been tremendously in character for him to deny himself something he wanted out of obligation, but even that, coupled with her suspicions of his returning her feelings, was never enough to induce her to push with any real force. Not when she could instead end up pushing him away entirely.
So, when the wanting of him became too much to bear, she had taken other lovers, and satisfied herself by picturing him in their stead. His eyes. His hands. His lips.
It was enough. It had to be. At least for a while.
Elizabeth always figured there would be time. Time enough for him to open up, to change his mind. Time enough for her to change his mind. Time enough for him to recognize that she was no longer his pupil, but a woman. A woman who yearned for him. Whose fondness had long ago morphed into attraction.
Elizabeth always figured that someday, she would relay to him all the tender feelings she kept bottled inside. That she would achieve the exquisite catharsis of being laid bare to him in every sense of the term.
She always figured...someday...he might let her love him. And love her in return.
But now…
It has been nearly a fortnight since he abandoned her. And she is still utterly without direction, rudderless in a sea of grief. The echo of his final words still reverberate around the cavity of her skull.
Go. I will follow.
Except he hadn’t. He’d sent her from the cavern to lead the rescued captives to safety and stayed behind to facilitate their escape. She’d argued, attempted to sway him, but he would not have it. He’d ordered her to go despite her appeals. And then he’d lied in the same breath.
I will follow
He should have. He could have. She could have helped him. Was that not what he’d trained her to do? But instead of trusting her, he’d lied. And then she’d watched him die, struck down by the ancient evil they’d been pursuing so vigorously for the better part of a decade. He’d fallen to his knees as she helplessly screamed his name, starting back for him. And then, in a final act of defiance, he’d collapsed the tunnel between them. Cutting her off. Sealing himself in. A tomb.
It has been nearly a fortnight, and she has gone from wanting him to love her to merely wanting him back.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
An unfamiliar sound emerges from the consistent drumbeat of the rain. It draws Elizabeth from her brown study and back into the still air of her sitting room. She straightens in the chair, hands grasping the arms, abruptly on alert.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Her narrowed eyes slide to the covered terrace doors. Lightning strikes in the distance, its erratic glow spilling around the curtains, trailed by a peal of rolling thunder which has grown in volume since the last. The storm is nearing. But her instincts tell her that is not all that waits on her doorstep.
Elizabeth slips from her perch, stealing forward on silent feet to the corner table where she’s left her pistol and small sword. She grabs up the latter, and then approaches the doors warily, ears straining.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
She peeks around the edge of the curtains and sees only darkness outside. But the thrum of her adrenaline, the prickling of her skin, they are signals she’s learned to heed. She grips the hilt of her weapon a bit tighter, and waits.
A jagged bolt of lightning splits the sky, and the unseen interloper is promptly thrown into sharp relief. Her sword clatters to the floorboards, and she flings open the terrace doors the very next instant.
A draft billows through the curtains, bringing with it the scent of rain and the tang of electricity. The fire gutters and falters in the onslaught, but burns on, illuminating her midnight visitor.
He is soaked and disheveled. His clothes are tattered and torn. His hair is loose, and his face unshaven, but despite all, he is immediately recognizable.
‘James.’
It comes out as barely a whisper. She is frozen, her mind blank, her mouth hanging open. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just holds her disbelieving gaze as the rain washes over him, streams down his clothing, drips off the end of his nose.
Elizabeth shakes out of her trance with a sudden surge of acute relief. James. Her James. He didn’t lie. He did follow. She goes to take a step across the threshold-
‘Don’t,’ he warns, his voice deep and gravelly, as if from disuse. ‘Come no closer.’ She halts, a question dying on her lips as he adds, ‘You must not invite me in.’
She nearly asks him why, but the fevered, almost feral gleam in his eye silences her. She recalls, with anguished clarity, the blow that felled him. The cascade of tumbling rock. He didn’t survive. He couldn’t have.
He’s been turned.
The revelation is accompanied by another streak of lightning and subsequent growl of thunder. Something splinters inside her, something she suspects to be the tinkling shards of what remained of her heart.
For James, to be turned would be a fate far worse than death. It could only have been forced upon him. And, knowing their enemy, it was likely done as revenge.
Cruel. Especially to her.
Her expression is utterly slack when she finally forges through the crushing return of her grief and summons the ability to speak. ‘Why have you come?’
James looks away. His shame is a palpable thing, manifesting as a bitterness on her tongue and a tingle on her skin.
‘To end it.’
Simple words, but their implication is devastating. He means for her to stake him. As if she could. As if she would. After he was the one with the audacity to die and leave her behind in the first place! The unmitigated nerve of him!
Her rising fury threads her clipped response. ‘Why did you not come sooner?’
‘I was...unable.’ He closes his eyes before meeting hers again. ‘I was not myself.’ There is a short pause before he corrects, ‘I am not.’
The period after a turning- the rampage- she knows the pattern well. It’s why the newly afflicted are such a danger. But two weeks is still too long a time. She states as much.
‘I was held. Somewhere dark and…’ He stops, tries again. ‘It took me time to escape.’
‘I see.’ So he had been a kept thing. It certainly was consistent with the character of their foe. That he’d managed to abscond at all was a testament to his tenacity. That, or it had been permitted. Neither option conjures particularly heartening imagery.
James interrupts her thoughts to state his purpose again. ‘You must end it.’
More lightning. More thunder. The maelstrom is upon them. Elizabeth swallows down the bile that has worked up into her throat.
‘No.’
He is vexed by her quiet, yet firm, refusal. His brows knit as his mouth dips into a severe frown. ‘It was not a request.’
She crosses her arms over her chest, her lip lifting in a snarl. ‘I don’t believe you have the right to give me orders anymore.’
This only serves to displease him further, something she has spent a staggering amount of time and energy trying to avoid. Now she finds that’s precisely what she means to do. The devil take his sense of duty. He’d abdicated all authority when he’d abandoned her.
‘Do you not see what I am?’ This attempt is almost a plea.
James has never pleaded with her, or anyone else, for anything. Nor has he ever appeared so...distraught. Elizabeth is suddenly weary in a way she’s never known. She sighs before murmuring, ‘Come inside, James.’
He appears stricken by the invitation, the permission. But it sounded too much like an entreaty, so she repeats it, louder this time, command in her tone. ‘Come inside.’
Several emotions dash across his face in rapid succession. Astonishment. Recalcitrance. Chagrin. But they culminate in defeat, and James does as he’s bade.
Elizabeth closes the doors, draws the curtains, and then goes to stoke the fire. All the while, James stands dripping on the fine carpet- a trifling testament to the change that’s come over him. Her James would never presume to create such a mess.
Once her task is finished, she moves to lean against the back of the chair, recrossing her arms and eying him expectantly.
‘You have staked countless other abominations,’ he accuses.
‘Indeed I have.’
‘And yet you hesitate now?’ There is unrestrained venom in his challenge. Does he mean to needle her into slaying him by threatening her professional record? He should know better. Elizabeth has never been one to do anything against her will.
‘It is not hesitation if I have no intention of doing it, James.’ She punctuates the use of his name, a reminder of his identity. The person he was...and perhaps still can be.
His answering scoff shows he does not care for the reminder.
‘So what do you intend?’
She mulls that over for a moment. It is a fair question to ask, and one that requires some measure of deliberation. If she isn’t going to stake him, what are her other options? Things cannot be as they once were. But perhaps...perhaps…
‘I’ll find a cure.’
He scoffs again, and it irks her. This incivility is entirely beneath him. Or at least it used to be.
‘I’ve never heard of such a thing.’
‘And so, therefore, it cannot possibly exist?’ she counters testily.
‘Therefore, it is a fool’s errand. And a waste of time.’
They’ve never argued like this before. Such petulance on her part is not unheard of, but on his? Thoroughly alien. In the past he either pulled rank to end any heated discourse, or opted to bow out. He has never entertained any sort of bickering.
‘You don’t know that. There could be something in the archives. Something as yet overlooked. Or maybe-’
‘Don’t be so naive, Elizabeth. You cannot make something true just by wishing it so.’
Her brows lower at the rancor in his riposte. ‘And so it would be better to drive a stake through your heart? Do you really believe me capable of doing such a thing?’
‘One would hope,’ he enunciates darkly, ‘that you would not shirk your sworn duty. You cannot have forgotten your oath already.’
‘I have not forgotten,’ she spits back with equal vitriol. ‘But I am not so rigid in my keeping of it that I would resort to killing you before attempting to find some other recourse.’
‘There is no other recourse!’
He has never raised his voice at her in anger before. Panic jolts through her. Followed swiftly by righteous indignation. ‘You don’t know that-’
‘I am an abomination, Elizabeth! A parasite! You cannot allow cowardice to stay your hand!’
‘And those are the words of a gentleman?!’ she seethes. ‘You have now named me an oathbreaker, a coward, and a fool. Are there any other insults you wish to level at me?!’
James sucks in a breath, all wrath evaporating in an instant. His gaze drops to his clenched fists, and he releases them to stare at his open palms with an expression that is half dejection, half horror. Then he abruptly turns on his heel and stalks to the far corner of the room, his back to her as he faces the wall.
Elizabeth is reeling as if struck. This performance, all of it, from the moment he entered her home, has been the most visible demonstration of feeling she’s ever seen from him. But his rage is not half so unsettling as her realization that it is borne of fear.
James is afraid. And the knowledge of it feels like a punch to the gut.
It makes her want to hold him. It makes her want to hit him.
She does neither, instead approaching him as she would a wounded animal: slowly, calmly, and with measured steps. By the time she’s reached him, his shoulders have slumped and his neck has bowed, his forehead resting against the wallpaper. His misery is so profound, it fills his voice.
‘I’m sorry, Elizabeth.’
He looks so broken. So vulnerable. It’s so very different from the impeccable facade he’s always presented to the world. To her. Even as they’d gotten close, he’d always meted out the pieces of himself he’d meant to share in small, precious doses. The naked emotion he is emitting now is dizzying in its intensity, causing her to wonder how much is a product of his condition and how much had been there before, locked behind the iron bars of his restraint.
‘James. Look at me.’
He does.
‘I’m not giving up on you. But that means you cannot give up either.’
Elizabeth reaches out a hand and gently brushes her fingers under his chin, prompting him to pull away from the wall and turn his head toward her.
‘We will find another way. And in the meantime, we will continue our work.’
Meaning the Hunt. Having a purpose might be just what James needs to endure the unique and terrible demands of his affliction. But more than that, the accompanying abilities he’s gained could prove quite advantageous in a partner. Granted, as he is considered by all to be dead and buried, some prudence will be necessary. But their foe is still out there. And this could give them an edge over Him.
‘What will you tell The Order?’ he asks evenly.
‘Nothing.’
He scoffs, though this time there is no outrage in it.
‘For now,’ she remarks dismissively, ‘they need not know.’
He shakes his head, something like a smile playing on his lips. ‘And you do not believe the high counsel will be as merciful as you?’
She quirks a brow at the almost teasing cadence of his tone. ‘I wasn’t aware that sparing you was a mercy. But no. I do not anticipate they shall be. However, they are half a world away, and I am more than capable of being discreet.’
‘It is not your capacity for discretion that I doubt,’ he mutters disparagingly.
‘I have every confidence in your formidable self-control, James,’ she returns flatly.
His answering expression says he disagrees, but he remains silent. Which proves that she has been successful in appealing to his practical nature. She senses that, in spite of his personal objections, he is teetering on the edge of acquiescing to her plans.
But not without terms, it seems.
James pins her with sharp eyes, visage starkly serious. ‘Very well, Elizabeth. We shall do it your way for now. But only if you promise me this: if there comes a time I can no longer control myself, if this...thing I have become takes over, you will not waver. You will destroy me.’
At this, he extends an open hand, gaze searching hers. She takes it in both of her own.
‘I promise,’ she lies.
For if he can lie to save her, then she can lie to save him.
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