Sandman: Curse Of The Pirate King
by Spadesjade

One -- Passage Between The Shoals

Jill walked into the house. It was a grand place, and it had been a long time since she'd seen such grandeur. She hesitated at the threshold, knowing she was not appropriately dressed, but there was no helping that.

She'd been told to come here. She'd been told there was help here. In this strange world she was caught in, help seemed a rare thing.

"My Lady," said a man, who had the familiar air of a butler, but his hair, which should have been covered with a powdered wig, was cropped short to his head, sleek and dark, and he wore a straight black suit with long legged pants, much like the trousers she'd seen the pirate men wear, only much more tailored. "You are Miss Jillian?"

"Yes, sir," she replied with a faint curtsey. She'd lost track of the time here, but it hadn't been long enough for her to forget her manners. This place had a funny way with its time - it was only in days and nights, never in weeks, months or years.

"Please follow me."

The man held an expensive silver candelabra in one hand, and he guided her through the hallways into a back room, expensively furnished like a study, although the furnishings themselves were much more squat and square than the furniture of her time. She'd noticed that this place seemed to be made up of all times, that every place she went, while it held the hint of familiar, was just a bit off, as if the future lingered around it like an odor, tainting everything.

The man at the desk was older, gray-haired, glasses perched on his nose. He gave the appearance of being a very kind uncle or a benevolent stepfather, the way he projected a protective air. He stood up, and his eyes, bright and blue as the sea at midday, smiled at her, although his lips were perfectly serious.

"So you've come. I'm impressed you've made it this far."

The butler showed her to a chair, which was much thicker than she was used to. The cushions nearly swallowed her as she sunk into it, but it felt very good, very comfortable. She was so very, very tired.

"Yes, sir," she said. "It's been a long journey."

"I know. Well, enough with the 'sir' business. You may call me Jefferson, as all the others do."

She drew a breath. It was too much to believe, but she'd seen enough in her time in this place to expect almost anything. "Any relation to Thomas Jefferson, sir?"

The man gave her a lingering smile. "I'm only an echo of that dream, little lady," he said with a soft, wistful tone. "I'm hardly the politician anymore, and my years here have made me soft."

Perhaps a few months ago, she would have wanted to know more, would have wanted to ask him what he meant, what it was like, remembering such monumental things, wanting to know if the historical figure was at all like the fact, or even the dreamshadow that inhabited this place. But instead, she felt her eyelids sinking, getting heavier, and the low, deep rumble of a stomach too tired to growl much louder.

"You will stay here this night," the man said, his tone comforting. "I can offer you protection for that long. Then in the morning, I will send you by caravan over the hills and into the city of Moulin."

"French?" she asked. "That means Wind in French."

"Yes, it does," Jefferson confirmed. "As is the city. It blows hard and fast at times, and at others, sweet and slow. Every novelty known to man is found in Moulin, all of them from every time. Some of them, I fear, you will not have the stomach for, and should avoid seeing at all costs. But if you go to the Sparkling Diamond, and seek out Satine, she will be able to give you all the protection that you shall need."

Sighing heavily, Jill leaned farther back in her chair. "There's so much I don't understand..."

"Do not let it disturb you," Jefferson said, still in that understanding tone that made her feel so much less alone. It was almost as if she'd been reunited with her mother and father, not that she had given them much affection in her waking life. She regretted that, a little. "In the morning, before you leave, we shall speak of it, and perhaps I can enlighten you, a little."

"I feel like I already have just enough knowledge to be dangerous," she said, but she was already half-asleep, her tongue moving without the full connection to her conscious mind.

"Aye, as do most of your kind," Jefferson said. He nodded to his servant, who very delicately pulled Jillian to her feet and guided her to a bedroom, where she was fully asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

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She did not know what month it was. There didn't seem to be any months in this place. Somewhere it was always Christmas, Thanksgiving, Summer, Spring...you named it, it existed in this place.

The only thing she remembered about her life beforehand was being lost at sea in that lifeboat that was much too large for a single woman to control.

She shouldn't have been alone in that boat. She searched her memory to discover why she was, why only she had survived, and what exactly had caused the accident that had sent her adrift. She vaguely remembered a conversation, but at that point, the sun and the thirst had caused her to hallucinate, she was quite sure. A conversation with a man, slight and delicate and pale, as beautiful as any woman, with a lingering smoky scent of summer peaches, casting not one but two shadows over her as they talked.

It was the last dream she would ever have. It was strange, how she did not dream in this place. At least, she had thought it was strange until she'd learned that the entire land was all one large dream, or the shoals inside a place called the Dreaming.

Jack had explained it to her, a few days after he'd pulled her off that lifeboat, onto his ship, and into his life.

She was aware that she was awake, lying in a bed as comfortable as Jack's had been, but feeling cold and empty. And she was hungry.

God, she was hungry.

She was still in her clothes, which were hardly in any fit condition for her to sleep in, let alone walk the halls of this house in. She was only beginning to worry about what she would do when she stepped out into the smooth floor and saw a new set of clothes awaiting her. A simple dress, made of lavender silk, nothing fancy, no petticoats underneath to swirl about her legs. She had never liked petticoats.

Jack had never made her wear them, at least.

She pulled on the dress, and brushed her hair, which was hardly worth brushing. She sat down at the vanity that had been provided, and caught her first glimpse at herself in a mirror.

She reached up and touched the shorn locks, regretting, briefly, the extremities of her method, but it had to be done. Although there was little, at the time, that could be done for the bright golden shade of her hair, except hide it under a hat, or perhaps smear it with soot and mud when they became available, but they all made her skin itch.

She had never considered herself a delicate creature before. She had been mistaken.

The brush pulled easily through her short, short hair. She had cut it but two inches from the skin of her scalp, careful not to make it too jagged, but not so careful that it couldn't pass for just a poor beggar's ragtag haircut. It felt good, though, the soft bristles against her scalp.

Jack had loved to run his fingers through her hair.

She set down the brush, cleaned up her face in the bowl of warm water that had been provided in the porcelain basin, and made herself suitable for breakfast.

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Jefferson and his servant had just arrived and hadn't been waiting long for her when she entered the dining room. It was not a large table, and she was close enough to him to listen to his explanations without having to strain her ears, like she'd had to do at so many dinner parties in her waking life.

Even though all of this, she did not miss her waking life.

Breakfast was a strange mixture of items, but all of which she enjoyed, immensely. There were flat, round cakes that were called pancakes, filled with sweet, plump blueberries, and the cakes tasted wonderful with some butter and a thick golden liquid called syrup. There was also a roll made of eggs and meat that Jefferson told her was called an "omelet," which was nearly too big for her to finish, but she found herself able to pull through. Finally, as they were sipping coffee, Jefferson turned to her with a fatherly smile, and asked;

"So, what do you already know?"

She sighed, trying to think. "Jack told me some things," she said.

He nodded, waiting. When she didn't continue right away, Jefferson ventured, "He won't find you here, not today."

"But if I lingerâ€""

"He will." A sympathetic sigh. "But such subjects are suitable when relief makes itself present. I will not press you, but if you do wish to share with me your troubles, love, please, do not hesitate."

She gave him a shaky smile. "Please, Jefferson," she said, trying his name for the first time and rather liking the familiarity of it, although it was terribly improper, "do not think of me as some poor, abused creature, a slave fleeing an abusive master. Jack never harmed me. Not physically."

"There are other harms than those of the body," Jefferson said sagely.

"True, I know them, but even so...he was never cruel, not in word or deed." She looked at him, understanding the expression on his face - a strange mixture of confusion and understanding. "You want to know why I truly left," she added.

"I would not dare to ask," Jefferson said, as if mildly offended. "I have heard more than one tale of the Pirate King, Captain Jack Talon. One of the few creatures in these lands that can pass between the shoals as if walking between rooms. Only two others do I know who can do such things, and they are you and myself."

Jillian grew quiet. Her fingers started to tingle, mildly. It had been a while since she had shed all the jewels that Jack had given her, and only her ring finger reminded her to the loss of weight.

"I've heard a few stories," she said, flitting around the subject, "that he's told people, in his search for me. Only a few, though, as most people would discover me and turn me back over to him before you could even say his old name, Jack Sparrow."

Jefferson flinched, only slightly, grinned and shook his head. "I've never believed in luck, but in this land, luck is a thing all its own, and it's bad luck to say his old name."

"Maybe. But the most common story is that I'm a thief, that I stole treasure from him, and that he wants it back."

"And did you steal anything from him?" Jefferson inquired.

"Only the rings on my fingers, which he placed there himself," she said. "I packed nothing else with me when I left. Not even clothes. Which is why I was wearing those rags."

Jefferson nodded. "I've had them burned, you know. And I know you can't run around in that dress, so we shall provide you with some proper clothes before you leave."

"Thank you. But," she went on, going back to her point, "it seems that there is an unspoken rule in this land, about stealing. Anything stolen has the right to be hunted to the ends of the earth to be recovered. I guess that's what you get in a land ruled by pirates."

Jefferson chuckled. "Oh, he does not rule this land," he said.

"I have heard that, too. It's part of what Jack told me. He said that this land belongs to a man named Morâ€""

"Shhh!" Jefferson silenced her, suddenly sharp. "Do not say that name. That name has the power to summon him."

Jillian was surprised. "Jack said it often enough."

"Jack is a different sort of creature in this place. He does not rule it, but his part is as vital as any king. If you must refer to the true ruler, call him the Dream King. It is safer."

Jillian nodded, submissive. "The Dream King. And that the Dream King has six siblings, brothers and sisters, all of them the embodiment of some essence of the Universe."

"Dream, Death, Destiny, Destruction, Desire, Despair and Delirium, once called Delight," Jefferson said, nearly in one breath. "I have met many of them. Only Destruction have I never had the pleasure."

Jillian shuddered lightly. It was odd, to think that the man who was sitting with her had spoken with such creatures. If creatures they were at all. "Are they gods?" she whispered.

"No, not gods and not men. They are what we call anthropomorphic personifications of seven aspects of the Universe. Dream is the king of what was not, what is not, and what shall never be. Hence, this place."

"But this place is real," Jillian said, pressing her palm down onto the table, feeling the smooth, polished wood against her skin. "Not a dream."

"Depends on what you know about dreams," Jefferson said cryptically, pressing his glasses back against his eyes. "Dreams are strange things. You don't remember them in the waking world, beyond blurry colors and shadows. Some dream in black and white, others never hear anything. Dreams are mysterious. Like the Dream King himself. A dream can be real, in the right place."

Jillian shook her head. "I doubt I shall ever truly understand that. Along with your anthro...pomorphic...personification...thing." She stumbled a bit over the words, but managed a shakily accurate facsimile.

"Some things don't need understanding to be real," Jefferson said. "But, we linger here too long. You need to be packed. I shall provide an escort to the border, and from there, Lady Satine's people will take you under their wing."

"And Lady Satine can protect me from him?" Jill whispered, feeling the first light touches of fear.

"You have not yet seen her land," Jefferson said with a smile. "I highly doubt that Jack would even think to look for you there. And even if he did, yes, she could protect you."

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"Here is where we leave you," said one of the short men, dressed in the ordinary peasant rags of the masses, as they stood on the dock by the ship. "You will travel across in the hull. When you reach the other side, look for a woman wearing a red cloak. She will take you to Lady Satine."

Jill stood on the edge of the pier, looking out over the water. It seemed that there was a great mass of fog between the two lands, and she could not catch even a glimpse of the other shore. She had the dread feeling that she was going to disappear into that fog, forever. Swallowed by it, as surely as if by Jack himself.

"Miss Jillian?" the other short man said, his voice much softer and friendlier than his companion. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she whispered. "I am...fine." She gave them a grateful smile. "I thank you for all your help. Please, convey to Jefferson one final time my appreciation."

"We shall, Miss Jillian," the second man said, kissing her hand. With a smile and a little wave, she turned and headed up the plank and into the ship.

Jefferson had provided her with very comfortable clothes. The pants were made of a thick blue material that was often called "denim," and they fit warm and snug around her legs. The shirt was more of a peasant blouse, but thickly woven and sturdy, and clean, although not immaculately so, as it would have attracted curious attention. Around it all, she wore a simple brown cloak with a hood that made her as obscure as any other traveler. At her waist jingled a small leather pouch of gold coins, some of which were leftovers from what she had gotten for her rings, and some of which were a last present from good Mr. Jefferson.

She gained access to the hull without much more than a glance. Such was the influence Jefferson had. She was startled to find herself alone, amid boxes and barrels of goods she could not imagine. No others were around, not even the crew. She settled herself on a low box that seemed to be made of a smoother wood than the rest, and waited.

It had been explained to her, briefly, that these ships were allowed to pass between certain shoals of the Dream Islands for the sake of trade - and limited trade, at that. Rarely did they ever have any live human beings in their cargo, so when they did, the crew of the ship very much pretended that such a thing did not exist. She would be ignored, she was assured, throughout the entire two hour journey.

It seemed strange to her. But Jefferson had pointed out, quite obvious now that he'd said it, that in dreams, rules were never explained, understood, or even reasonable. They simply were, as they existed, nothing more or less.

She found herself questioning less and less, under that reasoning.

She found a comfortable spot, after a good deal of shifting around, pulled the brown cloak more tightly around her, and desperately tried not to think.

Two out of three wasn't really all that bad, if the third hadn't been quite so painful.

The ship began to move after a while - she felt the low rocking, like she was inside a giant baby's crib. It was methodic - she had always found the sea to be a peaceful place.

There was irony there. She couldn't get her brain to concentrate on it, which was well enough. Her eyelids began to droop, heavily, and she rested her head against the curving wall behind her. She could hear the faint echoes of the waves lapping up against the side of the boat, and the world turned misty around her.

Slowly, her lips moistened, and parted. A word escaped from her mouth in a low, mournful whisper, "...Jack."

She had been running from the pain. Exhaustion and hunger and fear had driven it from her earlier, but now that she was quiet, now that the world around her was still, the pain made itself known, a low throbbing in her heart so intense it was nearly physical.

Dammit, she loved him. She missed him.

The mist thickened. She became slowly aware of the fact that she wasn't alone. Her eyes were not so heavy now, and she looked over her shoulder, to see a man standing in the very lowest part of the floor, only so very tall, he seemed to still dwarf an average man. It did not frighten her to suddenly find him there, for he gave off a kind of benevolent presence, as if it were natural for this encounter to occur.

As if it were Destiny.

Slowly she unwound herself, the cloak slipping off her shoulders and down her back. She walked up to the man, whose gray shroud completely hid his face from her, and she realized he had something in his hands. There was a box close by him, sturdy enough for her weight, and she stepped up on it, peeking over the man's shoulder.

He was holding a book. The book was huge and thick, with richly woven pages filled with colors and emanating sounds, and yet there were so many pages that they seemed uncountable. The book was chained to his arm by large metal links, and yet it was as if the chain were just a growth, an extension of his own flesh, which was pure white, what she could see of it on his hands, which grasped the book.

The pages, though - once her eyes were upon them, she couldn't look away. She could see herself, and Jack, the first day she'd met him. The day he'd rescued her from that boat, her just floating aimlessly across the sea, him her savior. He'd been such a gentleman, although the fact that she was suddenly surrounded by pirates hadn't settled well with her. The pictures moved on, the pages still in the man's hands, to show how she had been secured safely in Jack's own cabin, given the finest clothes, fed the richest foods, and treated to his most gentile company.

She shut her eyes. Those days had been good, and innocent. But they had not lasted.

The pages flipped. She could hear the soft sound of the paper as it moved, and when she looked up again, it was a different sight before her.

It was the first time she had attempted to leave.

She was packing a small bag, taking with her only her essentials, and her cheeks were red and there were tears coming from her eyes. With a pang, Jillian found herself remembering the conversation that had proceeded it, Jack telling her that she lived only on his good will, and that she needed to be more grateful for him, that she depended on him for everything. When she had told him she was leaving, he'd flatly told her that she wasn't.

She would never forget the look on his face. The darkness there, the hints of cruelty in his eyes, a rich brown that had grown nearly black with barely restrained rage.

Defiance had moved her to begin packing. Jack had countered by locking her in that cabin for three days.

The pages flipped. She could see herself, huddled in the corner of the cabin, wearing nothing but the ragged clothes she had been found in, using the last shreds of her will to defy Captain Talon, but Jack was too smart and too strong for her.

He entered the cabin, and she last thing she was able to see with her eyes was his approach to her across the room.

Jillian looked away. "Please," she gasped, jumping off the box. "Please, enough."

The man turned his head slightly. "It is you who chose to look into the Book. Not all can bear the images of their past."

She looked up at the gray figure. She noticed that his eyes, underneath the hood, were glossed over with frosty white cataracts. He was blind. "I'm sorry...but, who are you?"

"I am the keeper of the Book. You know who I am."

She whispered the word. "Destiny."

"Yes."

"I didn't know you existed."

"Some do not. But still, I exist. You have already met my sister/brother."

"I have?"

"Should I show you?"

"No." The memory flashed in front of her, like a scene suddenly illuminated by lightening, and then faded. "I wasn't exactly in my right mind at that time."

"You were in a state of pure want at that time," Destiny said. "It made you easy prey."

"Prey?"

A small sigh escaped the man. "My sister/brother and my brother, Dream, have long been angry at each other. It started before the Earth was born, when Sol was young, a boy by human standards. A lovely creature named Killalla of the Glow had caught Dream's affections, and Dream believed that Desire had done him a favor by giving him such a companion."

There was a pause. "What happened?"

Destiny shifted, and with it his robes moved, creating the mist around them to thicken. It crept across the room, and it seemed to go through the thick wood of the hull.

"It doesn't matter...at this time. We will meet again, Jillian. In the meantime, you must see your fear for what it is. I have been asked to give you a warning, Jillian, and while it is not in my nature to fulfill such a request, there are family matters that compel me to intervene."

Jillian looked toward the hull, and it seemed as if the mist were eating it away, and she could see out to the sea beyond.

It was the first time she had tried to escape from Jack. The first time she had run away. Her back burned from the memory of the lash, although the scars had all but disappeared under Jack's care.

She had snuck out in the middle of the night, climbing down a rope she had tied into knots and dangled down into the sea. They were docked, and she slipped into the water and swam toward land, having stolen a pair of Jack's breeches and a shirt. Her old rags had been utterly ruined and burned, and a dress simply would do for the journey. She'd taken more jewelry that time, and it hung from her waist in a small bag, tied securely.

She made it into town, into a brothel, for a night. The next morning, she had bribed another ship's captain into taking her with them to wherever they were going. She had long since forgotten the destination, and it seemed to matter little to the memory. She was hiding out in the bowels of the ship, mopping tar onto the floor, when the attack came.

Jack had sunk the ship, burned the wreckage, and killed every single man aboard. She remembered how he had chased her through the chaos, seizing her by her hair and dragging her back onto his ship.

"But why?" she cried into the memory, as she saw pieces of the world burning around her, the hull of the very ship she now rode in, flames licking at the cracked wood. She turned around, to see Jack standing there, staring her down, that same look on his eyes.

Two pieces of ebony, glimmering and narrow, pinning her to where she stood, every fiber of his being claiming absolute possession of her. Her own body felt like a magnet drawn to an opposite charge.

She felt it pierce her as it had then, but then drew a breath, knowing it was impossible for him to be there.

"You can't run from me forever, love," he said, his voice a soft caress, in spite of the fierceness of his countenance.

"Can't I?" she replied, her voice trembling.

"Not as long as you still want me." He smiled, and it was charming and terrifying all at once.

Jillian opened her eyes. She was still in the box, wrapped in her brown cloak, curled up against the curve of the hull. And the ship had stopped moving.