Cutler looked down over the rail of the balcony, across the bay where the sun was just beginning to tease the esoteric grey waters of the night and turn them as if by magic into the dancing gold-tipped waves of the sunrise. It was an amazing transformation, really, but a man born to a wooden deck beneath his feet and a rushing wind filling the sails learned soon enough to disbelieve the excitement and mysteries the sea, and those who courted her, so falsely promised.
Rubbish. Gold or love or freedom; all men searched for something, and compass or none, all men, someday, lost what they wanted most.
You heard of Captain Jack Sparrow for years and longed to catch him, to have him in your hands and hear your name spoken when children asked what had happened in the end to the infamous scoundrel who terrorized the seas in his own unique, blundering way.
Andthen you did, and all the ridiculous rumours you'd laughed at about him weaselling his way out of trouble by any means necessary were suddenly painfully unamusing.
Any means necessary. But there were some depths even Jack Sparrow would not sink to.
He told himself it was for the compass. It pressed against his hand like a burning ember, as if it were his own conscience come to life, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to throw it into the ocean.
Jack Sparrow.
Once heard, it was a name you never, ever forgot.
Idly, he set the square brown box on the rail and stared at it. It didn't look like much of anything, and he realized with an odd bemusement that he probably should be wondering if it had been worth it.
But he wasn't.
He had to let him go, now. He knew that much. There was some…some unwritten honour code, somewhere, that covered pirates and honest men both; he was certain of it. You rose and never breathed a word, but there was a mutual respect.
The thought popped out before he could strangle it.
What if it had been more than a way out of the gallows?
No. What? Holy God Almighty. No.
He heard a soft sound from behind him, and knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that Sparrow wasn't asleep, hadn't been for some time. But he feigned it, for whatever reason, and Cutler wasn't intending to disturb him. He didn't move, only stared, not quite seeing, at the compass.
Why had he taken that first drink?
Sparrow was a pirate, and he stank. But after a few mugs, somehow he became an adventurous sailor with a unique aroma.
Why the first drink, then? Why hadn't he shot him on sight?
Why had he only branded him, and why was he about to let him go?
He sighed, drumming his fingers against the rail next to the fatal brown box.
Sparrow had that mark on his wrist for life, and Cutler knew it was all the brand he would take away with him.
The box tempted him, and he reached for it, weighing it in his hands and pondering dashing it on the rocks.
He thought of his ship, his goal, his dreams of power, the things he wanted most, and stared at the compass.
He thought of Jack Sparrow, and his black-sailed ship, and the pirate's brand he wore with pride far deeper than his skin.
He thought of a knighthood.
He thought of a unique aroma.
He lifted the lid on the brown box, and watched with a certain odd satisfaction which way the needle turned.
Then, not quite knowing why, he closed it again, walked back through the room, and tossed the thing at Sparrow as he opened the door to leave. And paused.
"It's broken," he said aloud, and closed the door behind him.
He would often brag of the mark he had made on Captain Jack Sparrow. He wondered if Captain Jack Sparrow would ever know of the mark he had given in return.