'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.
xxx
Captain Jack Sparrow stood alone on the port side of the Black Pearl's quarterdeck, one hand gripping the damp rigging as he gazed out to sea.
The day was densely overcast- a rarity for the Caribbean, though not for some other places he'd lived. The entire sky was obscured with sagging clouds, shading from dull gray to charcoal. The wind stirring his braids and overcoat was chilly and mournful- even the leaden waves slapping the Pearl seemed disheartened. Such conditions reminded him of cloudy-day views from the muddy, rancid banks of the Thames, where he'd spent so much of his early childhood.
Often he was indifferent to such recollections, but on this occasion they weighed heavily on him. Not just because Jack had few truly happy memories of growing up in that impoverished part of London- there were other reasons. As surely as if compass-guided, his face turned north-northeast, towards that distant city and nation. Simultaneously, his free hand rose to settle on his midsection. It was, as he knew, a painful area to subject to the tattooist's needle. Which was exactly why he'd chosen it. At the time, he'd needed some distraction from the cruelly persistent ache on his wrist.
Sparrow had not immediately comprehended how much Beckett took from him, when that red metal was pressed into his arm. For some while afterwards, Jack had been fully preoccupied with escape and flight. Not until he was well out to sea had he sought a secluded place in the hold to regard the unwrapped brand, and realize just how thoroughly his world had fallen apart. That burned 'P' signified more than banishment from service aboard law-abiding vessels; Jack was no longer welcome or wanted in that social strata where he'd planned to make his life. No longer a citizen of England- the closest thing he had to a homeland. Nor likely to be accepted into any other nation. In their eyes, he was now a criminal, an undesirable, an outcast... a non-person.
At the first port of call, he'd sought out the best tattooist available, and spent his last few coins to have a commemoration inscribed on his torso. As an act of defiance, he'd told himself. Though, in retrospect, it was equally an acknowledgment of loss... a memorial to a stage of his life now gone beyond recall.
Every crew he'd served with, or over, since then had seen the inked words. But few were literate, fewer still could read French, and only one, so far as Jack knew, really understood the meaning. He wasn't sure if that was too many or not enough.
Ignoring the low air temperature, Jack slowly unfastened his coat, then his shirt. He gazed down, long and somberly, at the eight block letters etched between sternum and naval:
SANS PAYS
Wind moaned in the rigging- almost as if the Pearl sighed, partaking of his sadness. Jack managed to smile down at her shadowed deck, up at her dark sails, as he tugged his clothes back into place.
Sans Pays... Without Country.
This small floating sanctuary was the only nationality left to him.
xxx
FINIS