Disclaimer: I do not own POTC simple as that
A/N: If there are any grammatical or spelling errors my apologies! I felt that this story needed to get out as soon as possible, so I was not as careful in my proofreading as I usually am. Please, look them over if you can, and if there is anything truly horrible in that regard, please point it out to me. Also, I would like to thank "Rebell". She gave me the idea for this story, and it wouldn't be posted without her help! That's all I have to say, so enjoy!
Hoist the Colors
Drums. The sound of the doleful executioner calling out his joy. Who would not be joyous? The pirates, the scoundrel's, the black-hearted men and woman of indescribable filth, were all to die.
The clank of chains, the shuffle of feet, as our numbers slowly dwindle but never die.
Never will we cry out, never will we beg. We are the pirates, and we stand to our colors.
A long mournful note, the drummer speeding his timing. I hear the snap, the crack of breaking necks. How many now? How many to meet a death, that is supposed to be granted upon the sea but instead is upon the unmoving land?
It looks like it is to rain. I shuffle along, eyeing those around me, the soldiers in their sober garb. They laugh at us, but they never know. No, they never know that we will never die.
How fitting it is to rain on this day! The rain to whisper down our faces and aid our somber plight. This is all our watery grave is to be, a mockery on our souls, the little soul we have, yet a tribute to what runs in our veins. The blood of freedom.
The steps are trembling beneath my feet, threatening to break. How many have passed this way today? How many have met their death?
They don't even read out our charges anymore. We are the condemned, the hated, we do not deserve to live
But they do not know that we will never die.
I am too short, the noose hanging above my head. I look up to it, and its perfect loop, the size to fit about my neck.
There is no crowd, we are meant to die alone and in the lowest depths of hell. But still I see him, this Lord Cutler Beckett, the man who thinks he can own us and the sea. How wrong he will be when the Brethren Court gathers.
I hear unknown condemned moving behind me, down the line to face the same piece of rope I face now. We will never die. "Yo ho, hoist the colors high, heave ho, thieves and beggars, never shall we die."
My voice sounds so pitiful as I sing, I am alone in giving voice, but I know that I am being listened to. I am so nervous, as death beckons to me, but I will not give them pleasure of begging for my life. I am the son of a pirate, and I am not shamed by it.
It is the Lord Cutler Beckett who deserves his death. It is he who has taken command of Davy Jones, and terrorizes our home. Oh merciful Davy Jones, who tried to leave no man behind! How well he knows us, though he breaks all rules. No matter how one may try, the sea is always ours, though bound in unfair chains.
"The King and his men stole the Queen from her bed, and bound her in her bones. The sea be ours and by the powers, where we well will roam.
"Yo ho, hoist the colors high, heave ho, thieves and beggars, never shall we die."
The last of us have filed up onto the plank of death, now we but wait for the hangman's noose to tighten. They do not know, and they do not care. We are not people to them. We are to them without feelings, and without dreams, without family and friends. To them, we are already dead. How can they not know that we seek to protect our own, to hold the banner high and hoist the colors of all our countries? Are they fool enough that they think that those who hold the keys of Calpyso's imprisonment, will not heed our call? Never can the Pirate Lords be captured, for they are great among us, and greater then all Navy men.
"Some men have died, and some are alive and others sail on the sea-with the key to the cage-and the Devil to pay, we lay to the Fiddler's Green."
The heavy sound of feet on wood, pacing the well trod path. From the corner of my eye I can see the noose being lowered about the necks of my family. I may not know them, but still we are bound, as one, in a family of betrayal, of lust and greed. It may not be one of trust and love, but one of trust and love we never want.
I am not singing alone anymore, I can hear the strong and proud tones of all behind me who wait their death, and all those that have already died. I see the drummer, his hands stilled and silent, a look of horror and fear upon his face. We are not subdued, we are not afraid.
We are proud and angry for our graves shall not be the waters we can never tame. But never shall we die.
A barrel is placed before me, and am I lifted upon it. I can see the rope so much closer to my face, but I am not afraid. In strong clear tones, I belt out the rest of the song, so the Court may know of our betrayal, and foolishness of this Lord Cutler Beckett.
"The bell has been raised from its watery grave, do you hear its sepulchral tones? We are a call to all, pay heed the squall, and turn your sail toward home."
I never got to say the last lines, but I felt the rain upon my face, as the ground dropped beneath me.
Death so swiftly and silently, but acted out in clear murderous intentions, gathered me into its loving embrace. But before all before me faded, I heard the song begin again.
And never would I see the rebirth of our glorious regime, but I knew that never shall we die.
"Yo ho, haul together, hoist the colors high. Heave ho, thieves and beggars, never say we die."