concertigrossi

Psychopomp and Circumstance
A PotC/Sandman crossover

WITH THANKS to pink_siamese for the beta.

Author's Note: In addition to Neil Gaiman's fabulous "Sandman" comic book series, I have to credit a great deal of the inspiration for this to Terry Pratchett, for his wonderful discussions of the nature of belief and manifestation in the more interesting universes. (For those interested, they can read more in his books, particularly Small Gods and Hogfather.)

        It was a strange thing, to suddenly own a ship.
         Of course, on the list of strange things that had happened to Will Turner recently, it didn’t rank very highly, but it was still very odd.
         He knew a little bit about how to sail; anyone who spent as much time as he did in Elizabeth Swann’s company would have to be a complete idiot not to learn at least the theory of the craft. Plus, he had his father as his right-hand man. William Turner Sr. was a born sailor, had spent his life on the ocean, and was happy to teach his son everything he needed to know.
         He’d thought he would hate his allotted task, but he didn’t. The first few ships had been hard, but he knew that whether he was there or not, these people were fated to die. He couldn’t change that, but he could provide them with a friendly face and a bit of kindness as they faced their final journey.
         If only… if only he could see his wife. Every night, he dreamed of her. Her face, her hair, her scent, her eyes. The feel of her skin. But memories and dreams were cold comfort when one woke every morning on a ship full of dead people. The longing nagged at him constantly, coloring his every thought and action.
         He’d looked through the rules the Goddess had given him, searching for a loophole that would permit him to see Elizabeth more often. If he had complete freedom of movement on the ocean, then surely he could visit her every time she was on board a ship? With the purchase of a houseboat, and the location of a good mooring, he thought, he could go home to his wife in the evenings as regularly as if he were still a blacksmith in Port Royal. There was nothing forbidding him to do so.
        But, as he realized the first time they encountered a living person who was not on the point of death, there was no need to forbid the Captain of the Flying Dutchman to do such a thing.
         He could see how much time each and every person had left to live.
         He could watch the life ebbing out of them, drop by drop.   Each second he spent in a vital person’s presence was nothing more than a second spent watching that person diminish. It was a sight that made him recoil in horror. There was nothing anyone could do to stop it, and the fact of it raked across his soul like the screech of steel on steel. He’d discussed the matter with Calypso, but she’d just shrugged. “You were de same as dey when you lived, an’ it bothered you none den. Dat’s de way of de world, boy.”
         The deal was that he would become the Dutchman to have what days with Elizabeth he could take. But what then? This was beyond isolating… what would happen when she died, and he lost all that was tying him to the world of the living? He searched through Jones’ effects to find some clues as to his fate. What had turned the man? Had it just been the loss of love, or had he forgotten what it was to live, to be human? Was it a flaw in Jones that caused the lapse, or was it in the nature of the job?
         Elizabeth managed to visit him just once, in the company of a very determined, persistent lady who clearly wasn’t going to take Death as the final word. (And who would have guessed that James Norrington could inspire such passions in the female of the species?)   He’d seen his child in her womb the same instant he saw her, and it took all his willpower not to mention it. Already, he was trying to avoid appearing to his wife and his old comrades as the not-quite-human being he’d become.
         He tried to ask Calypso, but she became angry.
         “What am I now? What have I turned into?”
         “You are what you always were. Jus’ wit’ a new job.”
         “What makes me different from Jones?”
         She raised her eyebrows and looked at him as if he’d just asked what made himself different from a jellyfish. “You have a good heart.” she said, and placed her hand on his cheek.
         He pulled away from her. “What if that’s not enough? Will I still be able to do this job then?”
         “You will still be able to do it because it your job, William Turner. Do not t’ink to cross me...” Her voice snapped and crackled like lightning over the water, then became calm. She sighed. “I forget… you scarcely more than a boy.” She patted him on the shoulder. “I will ask my belle déesse to talk to you.”
         And with that, she vanished, leaving Turner just as frustrated as when he found her.

-----

         But he didn’t have to wait long to find out who Calypso’s belle déesse was. They were about to switch between the worlds when time stopped, and a woman appeared on the deck. She was coldly beautiful, dressed in a pitch-black court gown. Her raven hair was piled high on her head, and the only adornment to her icy-pale face was an Egyptian symbol, drawn in kohl around one eye. She looked him up and down.
        “So you’re Calypso’s new man…
        “Who are you?” he asked.
         You don’t have to be quick to be a blacksmith, I suppose.” The woman winked at him. He took in the black clothing, the snow-white skin and the very fact that she was here…
         “You’re Death?” he asked. Unnerved, he started to babble. “Aren’t you supposed to be a skeleton with robes and a scythe?”
She threw her head back and laughed. “Only when I’m in a bad mood. As avatars go, I’ll leave the anorectic brooding ones to my little brother, thanks.”
         “Your… brother?” he asked. “Death has a brother?” His head was starting to swim.
         “She does. But we’re not here to discuss him. Your mistress asked me to have a talk with you.”
         “She did? I.. ah…” he stammered. “I’m sorry she troubled you.”
         “It’s no trouble. You’re one of my BOYZZZZZ now!” she exclaimed, making odd gestures with her hands.
        He stared at her, confused. “One of your what?”
        She subsided. “Sorry. Forgot the century. Never mind. What’s bothering you?”
         Though he didn’t need to, habit made him take a deep breath. “I don’t know what will happen to me.”
         She laughed again. “And how is that different from when you were alive?”
         “It’s no laughing matter! Am I even human still?”
         “Does it matter?”
         “Of course it matters!”
         “Why?” she asked.
         He couldn’t answer for a time. At last, he said, “How can I do my job, if I’m no longer human?”
         She toyed with her fan, mesmerized by the movement as she flipped it open and closed. “Blacksmith, right? You made weapons for warriors, but you weren’t one yourself.”
         “But I was a swordsman, and a good one.”
         “And you were a living man, and a good one. Best kind for the job.”
         “I can feel the changes in me every day. I can see things they can’t. I can do things they can’t. How do I keep from becoming like Jones?”
        She snapped the fan shut and looked directly at him. “Well, first step is never fall in love with a Goddess. That NEVER works out. The second is… just don’t let yourself forget. You’ve got your girl, and your son, but they won’t last forever. When they’re gone, and they will be gone someday, don’t let yourself forget that either, take your day on land and make sure you go out among the living. Find a big city, find the center of town, and spend your twenty-four hours there.”
         “But will that work?” he asked.
         “It does for me. Look, Jones really did think he could have eternity with his lover, and that just isn’t how the universe is. You’ve got the advantage, there.”
         He snorted. “Some advantage.”
         “It’s more than you think.”
         He thought about that for a little while. “Why is there even a Dutchman?”
         “Because people needed there to be one.”
         “I don’t understand…”
         “The first time a human ever got in trouble while out in the water, he prayed for help, and so was born the first God of the Sea. Men built their boats and sent them off to every corner of his world. A lot of them never came back, and their bodies were never found. Their families and friends at home needed to believe that their friends and relatives weren’t really dead, so they made up a ship and a Captain who roamed the oceans, giving each dying man a choice. The sailors heard these stories and believing that they might not really, completely die when they hit the rock or fought through the hurricane helped them face the danger. That’s a LOT of really powerful belief.”
         “But men have been dying on the sea for ages… the Dutchman is only a few centuries old.”
         She looked at him like an amused mother looks at a confused toddler. “You’re still thinking like a human, you see. Same ship, different legends, different appearances. The Dutchman will fade from memory someday, too, and take on a new form.”
         He had a lot to think about. And she didn’t have a lot of time. “Hang in there, Will Turner. You’ll do fine.” She turned to leave.
         “Will I see you again?”
         She grinned widely. “At least once more.”
        He caught the meaning “So I’m not immortal?”
         “Not from where I stand. But then, from where I stand, no one is.” And with that, she vanished.

------

        Time resumed with a snapping noise. “Ready to make the change, sir!” said Bootstrap. There was no response. He looked up at his Captain. “Will? Are you all right?”
         Will shook himself back to the present. “I’m fine. I think….” he said tentatively, then shouted with confidence. “Proceed, Mr. Turner!”
        The ship dove back to the living world.