munebox | Call me Out

Call me Out

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"But -- bless your soul -- you seem to be one of those few good men I hear so much about. Can't let a lady die alone, eh?"

"Try not to be too flattered, Captain Whitby. I'm just a perfectionist when it comes to my job."

"Is it a job if you don't get paid?"

...It was more of a serious question than she would let on. After all, she had her misgivings about the matter herself.

"It's a job if you do it. A curse if you don't."

Davy Jones.

"Job or curse and not a ducat to be found between'em -- eh?" Whitby repositioned herself, laying flat out on the bench. It was a small measure more comfortable, though her guts still ached.

"Another word of advice, then, young Captain," though she couldn't be more than twenty-five herself, and likely a few years younger. "Never take a job what doesn't pay in any currency but curses." A pause, then, as she tried to sort out all those double and triple negatives. "Aye. Yes. That's right."

Will wondered just how long she intended to play at this, prolonging her death like this. The pain, he expected, had to be awful. But he could admire her spirit in trying to beat it.

"You seem a bit young to be giving advice."

"I'm a bit young for a lot of things," she sassed -- her eyes shutting once again. "But don't you know that youth is deceptive and the young-looking can have been rattling 'round for centuries? How long have you held your post, hmm?"

"I lost count." After he no longer had anything to return to, the numbers didn't matter so much.

She was shocked to find her breath faltering. A soft curse came under her breath -- how silly to die this way, and she felt the need to explain so to the Dutchman's captain.

"I never lose count. I was mistress of the Neptune's Lady for a good two years before we were scuppered. Do you know--" a pause for a soft sigh "--what took me, in the end? A hunk of wood. Splintered from the mainmast. A stake," she laughed, "and although I don't trust you to understand the irony involved, I will at least assure that it is very ironic indeed."

"I was stabbed by a sword I forged myself, as a present for a man who was in love with the same woman I was, and then stolen by Davy Jones. Leading me here." Perhaps more dramatic than a piece of wood. But ironic all the same. But he kneels next to her. Eyes intent.

"I ask one last time. Do you fear death? Do you fear the dark abyss? All your deeds laid bared, all your sins punished? I can offer you a respite to delay that final judgement."

"Aye." The syllable was but a whisper and -- all at once -- her youth made her look more vulnerable than hale. She could not be like her sisters from long ago. Slayers who had met their doom with chins high and virtues flourishing. She had run from that life -- that job. And now, certainly, such a sin would find her out. "Only fools meet death like an old friend."

"One hundred years before the mast. That is the bargain you buy." And now, with her acceptance, his power could do its work. He set a hand, colder than normal hands, on her forehead. With it came healing and an end to her pain. All pain.

You should have chosen death.

...A hundred years before the mast. It was a better offer than the Council had given her. And his touch was sweet. Soothing, really. It took her breath away to be so gently treated -- or was that simply the last lungful leaving her body?

"Aye, Captain," she murmured -- a hand catching up one of his lapels and grasping the cloth.

A woman on board the ship. For a hundred years, no less. He wondered just exactly what he was doing. He may have command over his crew, but these were craven men who accepted the offer of Davy Jones. They might be loyal in a pinch, but when his back was turned, he could only guess what might come.

She was going to be a complication. And a temptation. For every man aboard this ship.

"How does it feel?"

She didn't answer immediately. It was important, it seemed, to stay still a moment with her shoulders on the bench. Back straight, knees bent, and in some small communion with her God. Brigand she may be and a Slayer on the run, to boot, but she was no Godless woman. Or so the silver cross 'round her neck might suggest -- though it had its professional applications all the same. Her lips moved with silent somethings, and then she used the anchor of her fist in his jacket's fabric in order to herself back into a sitting position.

"Not so different, I suppose. My belly-ache's well gone. And you've shanghaied yourself what will doubtless be your finest catch yet." She meant, of course, that she had every faith in her abilities as a sailor. Sometimes, as a woman, she had to boast a little louder than everyone else.

"When next do we make port?" She asked -- either not knowing about the caveat of ten years or else choosing to feign her ignorance. Perhaps she merely wished she might soon have the chance to break this newest vow like she broke the old one, and run once again.

"There is no port that will have us. Dead men tell no tales."

He stood again, seeing as she was now whole again. What he took note of was her short prayer. Good. Perhaps, at the end of her vigil, there would be something better waiting for her. For now, he afforded himself a better look at her now that she wasn't bleeding. Sure, her clothes were still soaked in her own blood, but she no longer had the face of someone dying. And the fact of the matter, she was a lovely woman to see. Though at the back of the mind, he wondered if it was only because he had not seen one for so long. The wenches of Tortuga look like angels after months at sea is what Gibbs once told him, before going off to find one of those wenches.

Well, damn, he was supposed to be a supernatural ferryman of the dead. He wasn't supposed to stare.

"I'll try to find you separate quarters. They won't be much, but they'll be private."

...Her mouth hung open a moment, and she nearly refused the offer. I've lived with pirates for a long time, now, Captain -- I won't be needing separate quarters. But then again, wasn't there a strange sort of power in perceived powerlessness? Let him think she needed to be accommodated, and perhaps he may continue to accommodate her. With a gentler look, she nodded her head and made a grand show of smoothing her wind-whipped hair. Play the gallant ferryman for a fool, Whitby, and maybe you'll come out on top.

"Of course. Separate. That will do. Even still, your men won't like having me aboard. Pity that old man saw me. Pity he knows me for a woman."

Pity, indeed. Inwardly, her spirits soared. She was bone-tired of pretending to be a man. She'd been bone-tired of it five months ago when she'd foolishly trusted her crew's loyalty and revealed herself to be what she was -- and not even a Slayer's assets could persuade half her crew from mutinying against a woman captain.

"They'll have to learn to live with it. I suppose it can't be any worse than adjusting to the idea of traveling underwater and traveling between the worlds of the living and the dead."

In any case, these were sailors of all creeds. There were many who held no such superstitions. But for now, he moved back to the railing, turning his back to her so he could watch the water. He'd done his duty with her and it had left Will feeling more wistful than usual.

...She wasn't so certain. Some ways were more set in stone than others -- old grudges and childish fears. But she doubted only so she could be prepared for the worst. For now, though, she stood and followed the captain to his rail. Her movement felt easier; her body responded. How gratifying.

Whitby dropped her elbows on the wood and allowed her chin to sink onto her hands -- back bent and eyes cocked to the left, watching Will Turner's profile as a hawk might.

"For tonight, Captain Turner," she deferred to him most prettily, "I'll make do with the fo'c'sle."

He caught her in his peripheral, his head turned just enough to remind himself where she was. And so he nodded. He would not be fool enough to offer his own quarters to her tonight. But he would be telling his father to keep an eye out for her. There was one man on this entire ship he could trust implicitly. And that was the man responsible for putting him in this mess in the first place.

"Then I'll leave you to it, Miss Whitby." He turned around. "See to the riggings. I want to catch the wind when we surface." As the captain, he always had a sort of twinge. A calling of knowing where he needed to be. This was no exception. "The East Indies are calling."

"...That how it works, eh?"

Callings. And oh, what a conversation it's been for them. Her manner softened as she slid by, instinctively knowing her way 'round even this ship. She was excited to see the stars when they surfaced -- what would they look like, pricking through the water? Would it even still be night? Her lip curled as she considered this questions.

"Sleep well, Captain," Whitby bowed a deep farewell and spoke a touch too sweetly.

"And you," he answered in a tone with a practiced detachment.

She'd be left alone for some time after that. He was captain, which meant there was other things that demanded his attention. It was a routine and one he was long past bored with, but he was dutiful all the same. And so that occupied his time for much of the journey, ever a distant sight.

Until they arose above the sea. But it was not stars or sunset that greeted them. It was cold rain, hard and cruel, with a storm that would shatter any other ship. But not the Dutchman.

No one could sink the Dutchman.

It would wake the crew who were still in their bunks, but Will was already at the wheel, barking out orders to the crew.

Robin savoured her time alone. She stole it in seconds -- ignoring the rigging for a good long while in favour of stripping off her heavy frock coat and the light vest beneath. Left to only the light, grungy linen of her shirt, she found she didn't suffer from the cold. And she found her belly-wound better knit together than it had previously been. The woman laughed into the inky, wet darkness. I've done it! A Slayer, certain to die, had cheated death and lived still. Oh, how her Watcher would have cringed to hear it.

By dying and undying, by signing up with Captain Turner's crew, and by not relinquishing her birthright, she'd done what every pirate knew to do: she'd taken it all, and she'd given nothing back. Soon enough, Whitby expected she could writhe her way out of the Dutchman's grip as well. But until then? She would play the dutiful crew-woman, see to the riggings, and follow every order. Or at least be seen to be doing so.

With this in mind, the Captain's roared commands roused her from a self-satisfied nap stolen on a trestle of coiled rope. Her soft boots slid onto the deck and she popped up at the first sound of men being called from their berths. And oh, what a sight met her! Whirling maelstroms dancing among the sails. Playing games with the cloth and rope -- sometimes cheeky, sometimes violent. The storm brought the façade of life to her cheeks and a glint in he eye. Chaos excited her, so long as that chaos was not hers to tame.

Whitby -- formerly Captain -- slunk her way down to the main deck with a smug smile on her face. She paused to mock-curtsey at just about any sailor who dared stare a moment too long at this newly arrived soul. This new slave to the mast. Already, the grumblings had begun -- some crude, and some superstitious. Most negative, laughing at the thought of a woman hand. Robin found it unnecessary to prove herself, opting instead to make glaring errors and beginner mistakes. Let them underestimate her, and let her learn the lengths and breadths of the captain's patience. Learn whether he was a punishing man.

Currently, she was fastening a length of rope to an aft rail -- and doing it sloppily besides. A clumsy knot, bound to come undone as the storm continued to rage and pluck and flirt with the Dutchman's trappings.

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Call me Out

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Remember me!?

VAGUELY.

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