Chapter 49: Elias on the Flying Dutchman
The sea was colder on the deck of the Flying Dutchman. The sky above looked like it hadn't seen sunlight in years, choked with clouds and sorrow. The sails above were tattered, black as coal, and the smell of death hung in the air. But there stood Elias—tired, dirty, still bleeding a little from his shoulder, but with that same damn grin.
"So," Elias said as he walked beside Davy Jones, looking around. "This is the famous Flying Dutchman, eh? Bit more gloomy than I imagined. Needs a little sunshine, maybe a few flowers. Do you have flowers down here, or is that against the rules?"
Davy Jones growled low in his throat, turning slightly. "You're not here to redecorate, boy."
"Pity," Elias said, rolling his eyes and patting the wooden railing. "I was thinking a hammock and maybe a tiny bar right here. It'd really liven up the mood."
Jones ignored the comment and continued walking. The crew of the Flying Dutchman moved in silence, grotesque men fused with the sea—barnacles, crustaceans, and slime oozing from their bodies. They watched Elias with empty, curious eyes.
"You mock now," Jones said, finally stopping, turning to face him. "But you'll beg before the years are done. Your soul belongs to me now."
Elias looked up at him, expression unreadable. "Yeah? Well, better me than Jake. At least I'll make you laugh before I rot."
Davy Jones narrowed his eyes. "We will see, pirate. We will see."
---
Days passed. Or maybe weeks. Time was strange on the Dutchman.
Elias spent most of his time doing work he didn't understand—scraping barnacles from the hull, fixing torn sails, cleaning blood from ancient rusted chains. Every moment, the ship groaned like it was alive, angry at its own existence.
At night, Elias sat alone near the stern, legs dangling off the side, staring at the sea below.
"Still not sure what I signed up for," he muttered, lighting a small piece of dry rope to smoke. "Could've been drinking rum with Jake... probably chasing some ghost treasure or playing cards with drunk sailors. Instead, I'm here. With the crabby crew from hell."
A voice came from beside him. "Regretting it, are ye?"
Elias turned. It was one of the crew—a tall, slim man with seaweed hanging from his face and half his jaw missing.
"Nah," Elias said with a shrug. "I just thought hell would be hotter."
The crewman stared at him for a second, then started laughing—a broken, wheezing laugh. "You're either brave or stupid. Or both."
"Mostly stupid," Elias replied with a wink. "Name's Elias. And you are...?"
"They used to call me Mercer. Doesn't matter now. Nothing matters much down here."
Elias nodded, watching the waves. "So how long you been serving?"
"A hundred years, maybe more. You forget after a while."
Elias paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "Do you forget... who you were?"
Mercer didn't answer immediately. He looked out toward the sea like it held the answer. "Eventually, yes. The ship takes pieces of you. Little by little."
Elias fell silent. That part they didn't put in the stories.
---
Later that night, Elias was summoned to the captain's quarters.
The room was full of maps, glowing softly under green candlelight. Davy Jones stood over a table, his clawed fingers tracing ancient routes.
"You seem too calm," he said without turning.
"Why be angry? I made a deal," Elias replied, arms folded. "Better me than Jake. Besides, I got a front-row seat to the weirdest ship on the ocean."
Jones looked at him now, eyes like burning coals. "Do not confuse your jokes with strength. The sea has ways of breaking men like you."
Elias didn't flinch. He stepped forward, placing both hands on the table.
"You've broken men before, sure. But I ain't them. I've already been through hell. I've fought gods. I've bled in the sea and laughed while doing it. You think I'll cry over a few chains? You'll get your service, Jones, but don't expect me to kneel."
Jones stared at him. Silent. Measuring.
Then he smirked—just a flicker.
"We shall see."
---
The next day, Elias was cleaning the mast when a storm struck.
The waves howled, lightning shattered the sky, and the Dutchman cut through the ocean like a ghost. Elias held onto a rope, laughing wildly as the wind slapped against his face.
"THIS IS MADNESS!" he screamed. "I LOVE IT!"
Jones watched from the helm, his tentacled face unreadable. For the first time in years, someone was enjoying the chaos.
---
That night, Elias sat at the bottom deck, playing a flute he carved out of a broken pipe. Some crew gathered around, listening silently. Even in damnation, a melody still had power.
When he finished, someone clapped. Another wept.
"This ship ain't just death," Elias whispered, eyes closed. "It's memory. It's pain. But maybe, just maybe, we can make it... something more."
---
Elias was no longer just a servant.
He was becoming something else.
A voice of madness.
A spark of rebellion.
A soul that refused to rot.
And far away, on the Black Pearl, Jake looked out at the sea with a hand on the wheel.
"Hang in there, Elias," he whispered. "Don't let that squid-faced bastard win."
The wind carried his words across the sea.
And somehow, Elias heard it.
He smiled, even as the ship groaned under his feet.
"Still got time," he whispered. "Still got a plan."
The sea roared beneath him, but Elias stood tall—unchained, unbroken, and still Elias.
Just like always.
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