Hello everyone! I'm back, with this final installment of A Pirate's Life. People have been asking for it for ages, and I finally decided to write something. I, honestly, don't know what you all were expecting, but I'm telling you right now. It's sad. That's why I'm keeping this as a separate story. I still think that you all should be able to have your own endings, but for those of you who want a true ending, this is how I think it would end.
Anyway, I hope you all like, even though it probably is not what you all wanted. And, before anyone says it, I'm not doing this to be mean, or because I like your tears. I just… can't think of another way this could have ended. For me, at least. But again, feel free to have your own endings in mind. And feel free to write them out, publish them, and/or share them with me, if you want.
Thanks for everything.
Enjoy.
Dipper stood outside his village house, overlooking the vast ocean that stood before him. He could hear the sounds of children playing behind him, which brought a small smile to his face. He was breathing slowly, because if he breathed any faster he was sure his heart would stop.
Dipper was old. There was no doubt about it. He could feel it in his bones that age was catching up to him. Like it had to his twin, his beloved Mabel, the year previous. The doctors said it was old age. Dipper thought it was a broken heart. After all, her husband had died only a week beforehand. He had seen her, one last time before she left. He had seen the heartbreak and complete despair she had felt. She had told him not to worry, not to be sad. How could he not? He had wondered, staring at his twin, the one remaining constant in his life.
His own wife had died three years prior, of a terrible case of consumption. He hadn't even been able to see her, at the end. The doctors didn't want him to catch the disease. Had he been a better husband, he would have disobeyed and went into that room, making sure she knew she was loved.
It was a shame he hadn't been a good husband.
He regretted that, now. When they had met, when he had been twenty, he had thought he loved her. She was funny, charming, and sweet. She smiled so prettily at him and he was sure. He was so sure that she had to be the one. But he had felt nothing when he touched her. Nothing when he made love to her. He never told her, but he had a feeling she already knew.
Regardless, they had been married for fifty-five years and had had three children together. They now had five grandchildren, a handful of great grandchildren, and possibly even a great, great grandchild on the way. All in all, not a bad life.
And he had loved his wife. Daniella. They had been happy together, he knew that. They had smiled and laughed and loved together. She had helped heal him, after… she had been there. She had held him when he had cried. She hadn't judge him when he finally told her. She had just looked at him sadly and said she would never tell another soul. To his knowledge, she never had. He loved her for that, at the very least. He just was never able to love her the way a man was meant to love his wife. He regretted that. He regretted many things, but that most of all. She had deserved better.
Better than a broken man who longed for the touch of another man.
Dipper let out a soft sigh, eyes fixed on the horizon, his mind going back to the days when he sailed on those waters. After… after, he had spent two more years on the sea, until his eighteenth birthday, which was when he had decided to leave his great uncle's ship once and for all. Mabel had done so several months beforehand, following the man who would later become the love of her life, but Dipper hadn't been ready to leave the sea. Not then. He still hadn't been, at eighteen, but he had felt he needed to. Traveled a bit before settling in England, out by the sea.
He still missed it, though. Even the turbulent waves, the horrid seas. The threat of pirates, which he would never admit had given him a spark of adrenaline that was not related to fear. It had taken years before he got used to the feel of solid ground beneath his feet. Daniella used to make fun of him for it, a soft smile upon her face. Her clumsy sailor husband, she called him. He didn't even mind it.
Though he missed it, he knew that he was too old to return. He was seventy-five, nearing seventy-six, and his time was coming. He knew it. It was around the age his great uncle had finally succumb to his numerous problems. It had been a miracle the old man had even made it that long, so Dipper found that he wasn't dreading his end. He had lived a long life. A long, happy life, with a woman who loved him and children he loved with all his heart. And he had even had a taste of real love. Once.
Dipper held his breath as a familiar pang of an old sadness hit him, as it always did when he stayed too long staring at the sea. It wasn't as strong as it had been, once upon a time. But it was still there, and Dipper figured that even if he lived until one hundred he'd still feel that strange, sad pang of longing. Of the thought of what could have been. But never would, or should, have been.
He didn't regret how his life worked out. He didn't regret… looking over the sea, he took a deep breath. Closed his eyes.
He didn't regret leaving Bill.
Bill.
He also didn't regret meeting him. Sometimes he wished he did. More often he's glad he doesn't. Smiling softly, he shook his head. He opened his eyes and lets himself think.
He had last heard of Bill twenty years prior. Twenty long, long years. It had been in passing, at a local pub. He hadn't even meant to listen in to the conversation, he had been absentmindedly staring into his ale, starting when he heard a name that was tattooed on his heart.
"… Bill Cipher? Yeah, I 'eard 'e was found off th' coast a Spain. 'Iding out afta a battle wif th' Navy sunk 'is ship. 'E was badly 'urt, but 'e still got th' rope, which is a relief. Bastard deserved worse, in my 'umble opinion."
The sailors had then started laughing, draining their tankards before talking about their numerous encounters with pirates. Dipper had been tempted to stand and march over to them, shake them and demand answers, but he hadn't. Instead he had stood, paid his tab, and walked slowly back to his house overlooking the sea, heart aching. A few days later he had went out behind his house, where the memorial for his mother, father, and great uncle laid, and added another name. One his children would ask about, but he'd never answer. Buried beneath it was the poster he had kept in the crawlspace under the house, old and crumbled, but still depicting a smiling face that haunted his dreams.
That had been it, he had thought at the time. It had hurt, but not as much as it would have, thirty years prior. He just had to keep moving, he had told himself, watching his youngest daughter and her oldest daughter feed the ducks behind their house. He had to keep living, he reminded himself at midnight, bottle of rum in his hand, tears on his cheeks. It's what Bill would have wanted.
Then, two weeks after the day of the "burial," Dipper had gotten a letter in the mail.
It had been an ordinary looking letter, Dipper thought, with a plain cream colored envelope and the name "Mason Pines" printed neatly on top. He hadn't thought much of his real name being printed on the letter, since it was his name after all, and had opened it without much care. His heart had stopped, though, at the first line. With shaking hands, he had quickly read the words and tried his hardest not to break down in front of his wife and youngest daughter.
'Dear Pine Tree- or should I call you Mason? Found that little detail out a few years back, and boy are you lucky I didn't know when you were on my ship!
But, perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. I am kind of mortally injured and about to die, so I suppose you'll just have to forgive me. Let's start over, eh?
Dear person who I kept captive for a month thirty years ago and have never able to forget, no matter how hard I've tried,
How's it going? Wait, is that too casual? Never did get the hang of social graces, did I, Pine Tree? Probably why I became a pirate. Yep, most definitely that. Being socially acceptable is awful.
Anyway, you're probably wondering why I'm writing, if you're even reading this at all and haven't just thrown it out in a fit of anger once realizing who was writing you. Or if you've, somehow, not realized yet and are patiently waiting to figure out who is rambling at you.
To be truthful, I'm not entirely sure why. Probably the mortally wounded and almost dead thing. Probably. Sentiment, you know. Or maybe I just wanted to talk to you once more. Maybe I always meant to meet up with you and am now realizing, as I sit in my cell with what's left of my right leg green and oozing, that I will not actually be able to do that. That I waited too long, my fear that you'd kill me on site overpowering my desire to speak to you. Ah, curse that silly thing us humans call fear! Ah well. Suppose this is easier.
In case you are wondering, I'm about to die. Am already dead, by the time you potentially read this letter. Luck finally ran out, was just a pinch too slow. Got a cutlass to the right leg, went straight through to the bone. Once done escaping (which is a truly dull tale that I won't bother regaling to you), I had to cut off the rest if I had any hope of living. Too bad I got caught by the Spanish Navy before I had any luck of recovering. C'est la vie, or whatever those French bastards say, eh?
I wonder if you're happy about that. Could never tell, with you. I wouldn't blame you if you are. What I did… I'm sorry, by the way. What I did to you. I don't regret much in my life, but I regret that. How I treated you. What happened between us. Well, not all of what happened between us. Just the bad. Hurting you. I regret that. I don't blame you if you hate me. I'd hate me, too. I do, actually, but that's another story.
Justice is going to be served in the morning, and I have to admit. Pine Tree, I… I'm kind of afraid. Ha, never thought I'd admit that. Spent almost fifty years on the seas and only now am I afraid to die. Ha! Hilarious, isn't it? Poetic justice, I believe it's called. I wish I had spoken to you once more. I forget your voice.
I've seen you, though. I've kept tabs on you over the years, you know. You and your wife. And your little brats. You seemed happy. I could never bring myself to ruin that. Not after what I had done when you were in my… care. Don't even know if I'll send this letter, but I guess I probably should. If only to give you the peace of mind to know that I'm finally dead. You deserve that, at least. And the knowledge that I never was able to burn you out of my mind. Don't know what you'll do with that knowledge, but have fun!
I miss you. I love you. I wish things had turned out different. The sun is about to rise and I think I'm about to die. I'm scared
Goodbye, Pine Tree. There's a lot more I wanted to say, but I don't think I'll have the time. Aha. Funny how time works. Thirty years, and yet I can't forget one month that never should have mattered in the first place. Your feel. Your taste. I wish I made you mine, but I'm glad I never did. I wonder (furiously crossed out). Whoops, probably should say that. Not appropriate. Since when have I been appropriate, you might be wondering, if you even care at all. Don't know. Death makes things go funny.
The sun is rising. I can hear my associate outside my cell, he's telling me to hand him the letter now or he's going to leave without it. So I guess this is goodbye. Forever.
Pine Tree. It… it wasn't all bad, was it? Do you regret it? I hope you don't. God, I hope you don't.
I don't know how to end this letter. I never did. That's why I never visited you. I never knew what I'd say. Sorry isn't enough. It'll never be enough. I never would have been enough.
I love you,
Bill.
(Goodbye.)'
Dipper had stared at the letter for minutes after he had finished, wanting to cry but having no tears left to cry with. It wasn't until his youngest came over and gently touched his hand, with concern in her eyes, that he came back to himself and was able to quickly excuse himself and break down in his bedroom. His wife had found him hours later and had sat beside him, saying nothing, just offering him her silent support. He never deserved her, he felt.
His daughter had questioned him about it several times over the next few months, asking why he went to the pub more often, why he often had a distant look on his face, why he spent so long staring at the sea, but he never answered her. He didn't know how. He had only been able to tell his wife because he felt he owed it to her. He couldn't have told his daughter too. Eventually she moved on, her preoccupation with her own young children forcing her to let the matter drop. She was the only child who had stayed near to him and his wife, but he never could forget that she had her own life to live and that she didn't need him anymore.
Life after that had been hard. It was like nothing really mattered much anymore. His heart had broken thirty years beforehand, but that day it had completely shattered. He couldn't even tell if the letter had helped or hurt. If it would have hurt so bad if he had never known how Bill felt.
Before that day, he used to look forward to things, like visiting his children, or his twin. After, whenever Mabel visited, or he visited her, he never seemed to be able to match her enthusiasm anymore. She never asked why, presumably having heard the news. He had told her, once, several years beforehand, what had occurred on the ship. She never understood it, but she tried. Lord did she try. But she didn't press the matter. He was grateful for that.
Despite his heart being shattered and his enthusiasm for life having vanished, he somehow managed to find the will to survive long past any expectations he might have had. He lived on, even though it hurt. He kept Bill in the back of his mind and kept going, the memories fueling him on when he was at his lowest.
And then, when his one and only son died, and then his wife, and then his sister, he still managed to live. His heart would hurt, but it had hurt before, and he still managed to live. He kept the memories in his mind and the letter in his bedside drawer, and he lived. For twenty more years, he lived.
He spent hours staring at the ocean every day, his youngest daughter and her family visiting as often as they could to keep him company. He could hear them at that moment, laughing together in the house, and wished he could join them.
But he was too old. Too tired. Too sad. He hadn't laughed in years, he felt. At least not since Mabel had died. She had taken his laughter with her.
He had lived a good life, he knew he did. He loved the life he had lived. But he was so tired. He wanted to finally be able to rest. He wanted… he wanted to see Bill again. Just once. Just to say goodbye.
Too bad life didn't work that way.
A month later, Dipper passed away in his sleep, a letter clutched in his hands and a smile on his face.
He finally was at peace.