Chapter 51
The days passed like waves crashing against the hull of the Flying Dutchman. Time meant nothing out here in the endless sea, but somehow, Elias made it feel like life again.
He'd become a strange kind of legend among the cursed crew—still mortal, still loud, and still refusing to be broken. While others had turned to barnacles and silence, Elias filled the ship with noise, laughter, and absurdity.
"Alright, who's up for a game of cards? No cheating this time, tentacle-face!" Elias grinned as he slammed a worn deck onto a barrel, smirking at a hulking crewman whose lower face had melted into coral.
The others gathered, half out of curiosity, half because... well, Elias was fun. The kind of fun they hadn't felt in a hundred years. He told stories—lies, probably—about treasure, about women, about a goat he once owed money to in Tortuga. And they listened.
Even the ship itself seemed to shift.
It groaned less. It felt less angry. It moved faster, smoother. Davy Jones noticed. He didn't like it.
Late one night, Davy Jones stood at the helm, the wind cold and wet across his face. Elias approached, casually biting into a red apple. Where he got it, nobody knew.
"You're making a mockery of my ship," Jones said without turning.
Elias smirked. "No, mate. I'm making it bearable. There's a difference."
Jones turned to him then, his monstrous face unreadable. "You think jokes and cards change the fate you've sealed yourself into?"
"No," Elias said, biting again. "But it makes the time go by a hell of a lot easier."
There was silence between them for a moment, the kind that stinks of salt and tension.
"The men respect you," Jones finally said.
"Well, of course they do. I'm charming."
Jones turned back to the sea, saying nothing.
The next day, Elias found himself with more responsibility. Without asking, Jones had given him command of the night watch. A test? A gift? Maybe both. Elias didn't complain. He just put on a captain's hat he stole from a locker and started barking orders with flair.
"You—starboard! You—shut up and mop! And you, keep singing that weird sea shanty. It's catchy."
The ship changed again. The sails caught more wind. The cursed crew stopped moving like ghosts. There was rhythm now. Life.
Elias climbed to the crow's nest just before dawn, the wind blowing through his black hair.
He stood alone, silent for once.
"Still a hundred years to go," he muttered.
Then he smiled.
"Better make 'em fun."
And far below, the crew of the Flying Dutchman sang a crooked, joyful song they hadn't sung in ages—led by a man who wasn't supposed to belong there.
But did.
Somehow.
Elias.
The pirate who made the dead remember they were once alive.
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