That’s why she will never fall in
love. She is the one who loves harder than anyone. The one who pours a
hundred percent of herself to some lucky person on Earth. She’s the girl who’ll
love unconditionally and loyally, but she’s not a girl anymore, is she? She’s
just fun and games now; she could also be kisses and condoms. It sounds
immature but she likes the control she has over her life, and she’s not about
to ruin it with some petty thing called love.
She maybe a coward or just some girl
with trust issues, but it’s just her defense mechanism. She’s only protecting
herself, because she knows she’ll break if she falls in love. It’s stupid,
really, but Nean knows her limits. She should know, because she is the type to
give her all.
The cinnamon roll that must
be protected by the world.
She may be a hermit when it comes to
love but she sure is undeniably irresistible. She makes everyone love her, with
her hair that’s spun from bronze, and brown–hot choco brown–eyes that
sparkle when she smiles, shy or sly, nobody’s exactly sure. But then, the next
thing you will know, you’re trapped in her delicious hold. Trapped may not be
the right word because you fell of your own volition, but oh well, you’ll love
her forever.
Believe none of what you hear, and
only half of what you see.
That’s what her father told her with that haunting smile of his, the one that says: darling, don’t talk to strangers because daddy knows what they want, you never have to know what they want, daddy will make sure of that. Yuri never really understood what he meant, but sitting there nursing a $98 gin and tonic, the ice melting and clinking in the glass; it rings in the back of her mind, screaming at her to understand.
And then suddenly, she does. Like the quick and loud bang of a bomb, she understands. Understands it even through the burn of the alcohol carving through her throat and pooling in her stomach.
She doesn’t even like gin and tonic
but it’s the first thing that came to mind when she entered the bar where
reservation is a ten month waiting list. In her case, she didn’t have to wait,
she can come in anytime she wants. It’s one of her father’s many thriving
businesses, and it’s as good as hers, now that he’s dead.
A bullet through his head and
another lodged in his chest.
Yuri swallows the last of her gin
and tonic, lets the bitterness soak through her tongue and glide past her
throat. She’s never going to see him again, not even for the last time judging
by the the autopsy report describing in brutal detail, the way his skull was
pulverized and parts of his brain showered like confetti. He’ll be wrapped
inside that box like dead pig meat and Yuri can’t help but think that she’s the
one to blame.
It’s her fault, she should have
listened, should have been daddy’s obedient girl, should have understood him
much sooner. And now his blood is on her hands. She shouldn’t have played with
fire, shouldn’t have played god. If she hadn’t, daddy would still be here to
tease her about the gin and tonic. God, she hates gin and tonic.
But she orders for another glass and
downs it in one go. Her father loved that stuff, so she tries to drink it and
understand why. It tastes like shit but it reminds her of daddy so she keeps at
it, keeps downing the stupid drink to erase the guilt and sorrow.
It doesn’t work like it’s intended
to because once she gets home to her cold empty house at 90210, the misery
dumps on her like the world on Atlas, and she cries through the night wishing
she never should have signed that deal with the devil.
There were nine of us. Lords of the
seven seas and more, but only one would be chosen from the lot. Between us
nine, we were the only ones with the power to elect a King. And so, it was only
natural that I voted for myself. Selfish as it sounds, I needed to do what was
right for the Court. We had to make a stand against the enemies bearing at our
door.
But all other Lords had the same
vainglory it seemed. Putting their own names in the hat. Equal votes for each.
Save for one Lord.
“Elizabeth, love.” Jack
had said and I had thought for a moment that he had called me.
“Yes, Jack?” I had asked
but he hadn’t been looking at me.
“I vote for Elizabeth.”
“What?” I had squawked
indignantly, surprised that a vote was cast in my favor.
I knew Jack wanted to be King.
Wanted it so badly but I couldn’t vie for him over myself because I knew what
kind of King he’d make. Drunk on rum and too defensive of the Court that it’d
be a weakness sighted immediately by our enemies.
But he had proven me wrong.
And so with a crown upon my head, I
sang the song of war.
“The King and his men stole the
queen from her bed, and bound her in her bones.”
“The seas be ours and by the
powers, where we will we’ll roam.”
I was only the second King of our
Court but the Brethren sailed under my command.
And then I had said, “Hoist the
colours high! Never shall we die!”
One last war cry. One last order.
Before I lost the first man I had loved. It wasn’t Jack, for Jack is the second
and the last. The whelp as Jack had called him, swallowed by the sea, never to
return in my arms.
I had no time to mourn, for a King
can never lower her head, not even to cry, lest the weight of the crown snap
her neck.
Goodbye whelp. You’re home now. With
Calypso, our Goddess of the sea.
But after him there was Jack. And I
had been his ever since.
I was his King and I could still
remember the gleam of pride in his eyes.
Perhaps I still am a King. But what
am I a King of when my people are long forgotten, heard only in stories parents
tell their children at night.
I am the last of what we are. And so
is Jack. But Jack had long abandoned the brand of pirates when the Pearl had
finally sank. His first love claimed by the sea just as mine had.
So you see, ladies and gentlemen of
the jury, when I was King, I had everything. But now I only have one thing, and
he is my everything. Jack is the last thing–person–I have, and he is
somewhere out there, hating my very existence.
It’s been 44 years since he left. I
am not over it.
A/N: I made this for an Elizabeth Swann roleplay account. Jack Raven is my creation.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.
Jack Raven is not my real name. He used to call me Lizzie, Darling, Love. . .
and I’ve never hated any of those pet names even if I acted as if they were
troublesome. I’d roll my eyes and fire a smart comeback, to which he would
smile and communicate with his eyes how he loved our little skits.
“You never fail to amuse me
with your tongue, Love.” He had said and the innuendo got caught in my
secretive small smirk. He’s such a filthy man and yet I wanted to bury myself
in his lecherous mind and body. Let him have me, corrupt me, stain me with his
criminal hands.
He’s done so thousands of times, and
each time it was hard and arduous, ending with soft caresses so precise I
cannot reach my heart for it has ascended too high for my sated body to retake.
And then I’d whisper his name.
“Jack. . .” But that was all. There weren’t proclamations for I was
too afraid that it wasn’t what he wanted. Too cautious of where we stand that I
had neglected to put his heart in my ribs, right beside mine; beating as one
and the same.
He had left and it’s my fault.
Now I’ve made my bed–he isn’t on
it–and I must lie down. Down, down, down until the regret and guilt swallows
me whole.
Forgive me, ladies and gentlemen of
the jury, but I am a fake. I love a man named Jack and I can’t have him. His
name must suffice for now. Raven, another winged creature in place for his own
surname, the surname exclusive only to him because surely no one can match that
title which he earned. And then there is the matter of my own. You see, I can
never be a Swan for that name is much too prestigious to carry.
For all of the things I’ve told, you
know now why I’ve become a fake. Rightly thus, I am Jack Raven and I await
until forever and a night for my love that I’ve driven away.
A/N: Posted with permission. I made this for my cousin who does roleplay on Facebook and Tumblr. Disclaimer: I do not own Nean, Tiriel, and Ardyn.
It wasn’t advised to travel the seas
on her final term of pregnancy, but Tiriel had been adamant that she be aboard
the ship Ashayam and see the beauty of the edge of Etro for herself. The
mortal wife of Ardyn had been whisked to all corners of Etro except one, where
the world ends and souls depart.
Ardyn had insisted that he show her
his mother’s beauty before they depart for the mortal blue world of Earth.
Tiriel had readily agreed and through nine months of travel, her stomach grew
as her eyes gratified Etro.
This last journey wouldn’t be as
peaceful it seems. Ardyn finds this mortal wife of his unbending even with her
impending birth. He finds it amusing still, so he acquiesced. Looking at the
horizon, he feels that he should have pressed harder for a month of respite. He
should have insisted that they wait for the child first.
But that wouldn’t matter now. Not
when below deck, he hears Tiriel scream.
The winds began to pick up, faster
and harsher, howling with the salt of the seas. Waves began to come and go,
bigger and stronger, until the Ashayam was rocking on its axis and
groaning with the effort to stay above water.
Ardyn is thrown onto the wooden deck
as he rushes to his wife. Sprays of sea water lashes onto the ship, the rain
bullets down on him. He regrets to have brought no crew with them when he
thought he could helm the ship on his own. How foolish he’d been.
He hears Tiriel scream again, having
him pray Artemis not now. But the child is blood of the sea; this
is what the waves whisper to him. Ardyn fears he’ll have to call the monsters
beneath for their protection even though none of the beasts bow to him. No sea
monster will for his father had killed Leviathan, the sea goddess of the old
world.
Ardyn lowers the mast; the wind
wouldn’t carry them far if the cloth gets ripped. They will ride the waves.
Move with the storm. He cannot go against it, nor can he go around. The sea
chose this moment to raise this tempest; it must be a plot to exact revenge on
him and his kin. There can be no other reason.
“Ardyn!” Tiriel
calls with a hiss, the contractions coming in as sure as the waves.
Dropping the ropes, Ardyn rushes to
her below deck. She is there on the floorboards, back on a barrel and her skirt
wet. Her water broke. Cursing and brushing back her hair, Ardyn tries to soothe
her.
“Sh-she’s coming! Ahh!”
Tiriel gasps and then groans. “Take me up.”
Ardyn didn’t understand her request.
It was dangerous above, the winds too harsh and the spray of seawater too cruel
for her to endure. But Tiriel insists. She stands up herself without his help.
“What are you doing?”
Ardyn couldn’t stop himself from hissing in disbelief.
“They must–agh–they
must see her!” Tiriel hobbles to the stairs and hauls herself over the
deck.
Ardyn follows her, assisting her and
despite antagonizing her actions, he doesn’t stop her.
“Call the sea, Ardyn.” She
pants, settling on the root of the mast. The storm soaking her. The ship rocks
when a wave crashes on the starboard side, throwing her to the floor.
“I can’t have those
monsters–“
“Call. The sea!”
Tiriel screams as another contraction hits her right in the middle of settling
back on the mast.
Ardyn watches her with horror on his
face. She knows how this must go. She knows how their child will come to this
world. He knows he must follow her and yet, the curse of the war pulls him
back. What if the monsters reject him? Reject their child?
His dallying stops when another wave
crashes the ship. The sound of wood creaking and splitting has him running on
the edge of the deck, listening to what Tiriel ordered. If this storm and the
sea monsters doesn’t kill him, his wife will.
He hears her scream in agony again
and he looks back at her one last time before starting the ritual. The call
of the sea.
Altan Hal Weinberg 