There comes a time in everyone's life that they realize they must make a choice.
Most great philosophers and wise men of our age and those past discover this point during their lives filled with meaning and thought and lament on the light found in the depravity of the world. But rarely do these great minds fully understand what choice it was. True, you make "choices," but in the face of that one great choice, they are but trifles.
You will find that as you stare your choice in the face, with its hackles raised and its decay-laden breath assailing your senses, that your muscles tense, clenching your lean hands into fists at your sides. You can feel the sweat gathering at your temples, running languidly down the contours of your stiff jaw, completely at odds with your alert body, doing nothing to cool the way your blood is boiling, singing through your veins and leaving discord throughout your mind.
And yet, it strikes you that there is something different, crackling in the air, thrumming in your head. Something calls softly to you from the beyond, lilting and enticing. The cool breath of it tickles your ear and you catch a sweet voice as it whispers to you, "destiny…"
And you know. You know what comes next, what your purpose here is.
"Destiny." The word echoes around, joining the beat in your bones, ticking out a rhythm that crescendos, soaring into the unmistakable sound of epiphany…
Every particle that composes your being screams at you to turn, to flee in the face of your impending death. "Death?" you think to yourself. You have lived with the fear of death all your life; running when you feel that cold eye turned on you. Its empty gaze has been your sole companion at the darkest times, and has served as an anchor in the brighter moments. You see it spelled out in the eyes of your enemies, and you have seen it cloud the sight of your allies, few and far between that they are.
You've winked and grinned cheekily at death, flirted with it and cheated with it and scorned it like a worn-out lover. But death is no mistress tossed away and will not be staved off and evaded forever. Death reaches far and takes hold of those whom She chooses. You are lucky to have gotten this far, with the way you live.
You realize that there is no running away now.
You glance at the fading form of the longboat that carries away the few that still hold some sort of loyalty to you. At the word "loyal," your mouth twists wryly, and Elizabeth comes to mind fleetingly.
There is no more running because there is no escape, but there is also no running because of them. Even in the darkest part of you, there is nothing that can make you forfeit them for yourself. You tried after all, made a last-ditch effort to be a heartless coward, but even then you returned. Even then, when there was still a chance that you could worm your way out, they pulled you back with their screams and their pain.
That was no choice, to you. There was no other avenue in this situation.
The kiss was good. Sweet, and bitter and full of regret. Something like alarm bells went off in your head at the emotions mixed in like seasonings, but you are slightly ashamed that you lost yourself a bit, let your guard slip. Another choice, you suppose. But the slip in that choice has led you to another choice, and with a start, you realize the cliché of your life flashing before your eyes.
With that realization comes another: everything you have done in your life has been done to lead you to this point, even if you were unaware of it. Running away, becoming a pirate, the deal with Davy Jones, all of it. Every single thing you've done has been for the sole purpose of this. This choice.
Your choice.
Even though it looks as though there is nothing else for it, nothing you can do but sit back and wait calmly for the pain, for death, there is more.
You can only tango closely with Death before you realize the knife in your back is there because you decided to dance with Her. But then you smile through the blood staining your teeth and reveal to Her that the reason Her wine tasted slightly sour was the poison you slipped in before She drank.
So, with the corners of your lips curling in a slightly amused smile, you put on your hat and stare your furious lover in the eye, for who are you to back down from your Choice? The choice to die cringing or to charge in, ready to take your one last shot?
You swallow the fear thickening the back of your throat, you draw your sword, and you open your mouth for one final word. You always did have to have the last word. You are Captain Jack Sparrow, after all.
"'Ello, Beastie."