Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters of Pirates Of the Caribbean, but if I did, I'd be wearin' that dress instead of fat-arse Lizzy. Barbossa is his own scary self -happyshiver-.
He stood on the edge of his ship and stared out over the sea. The Pearl slid quietly and obediently through the waves, heading for her most regulated haunt - the Isla de Muerta. Not that the girl knew that, he mused, but that was, in fact, where they were heading. The captain felt a smile twist across his scarred lips. Finally. It would all be over.
A breeze picked up - but he could only tell because of the way his clothes ruffled, and the way the sails flapped and the ropes slapped against each other. He looked down at his hand, to where he grasped the railing. The breeze blew over him, ruffling his beard, the hairs on the back of his hand, his sleeve. But he could not feel it.
For more than ten years, he could feel nothing. It would be enough to drive a sane man into madness.
But he did not feel anything. Nothing. And madness was only relative. If one mastered one's mind, then there was no way one could lose it.
One's soul was another matter.
For a moment, the pirate mused silently about that. His soul. Well, there was no doubt it was gone. Those who had once known him had told him how much he'd changed. From a good man to a cutthroat captain. Those brave enough to make comments like that soon found themselves with a second mouth. Right across the throat.
The pirate laughed silently. There was no doubt about it. He'd lost his soul. But when? Had he lost his soul when he picked up the gold? Or was it in his quest for immortality? The pirate shook his head, a wry, bitter smile on his scarred face. Let them say what they will, he thought. All that matters is what a man can do, and what a man can't do. And now, his grin widened, we can, finally, break the curse.
He looked out over the dark horizon, where the sky and sea blended into nothingness ahead of the ship, and the stars and small waves on the water looked the same. His smile faded slightly. That's what all this has been like. Eternal nothingness. Knowing that something should be different, but being unable to tell that it was. The pirate turned away, hating the sight of the sky and sea for just one brief moment.
The girl was in his cabin. It was high-time she found out what her blood meant to the men aboard. He turned, his head high and the smile still on his face. His crew cleared a path, standing at attention when he pushed past them. The pirate captain's attention wandered for a moment before he entered his quarters. Fools, ingrates, every one of them. But at least they knew how to follow orders.
They followed him well. And not that drunken fool of a captain who had sailed before.
This rather unpleasant chain of thought was broken by a face. Dark brown eyes stared back at him, a strong jawline jutted out from under a narrow beard. A child's face, almost, but scarred and worn into adulthood. The face glowered at him as the cannon was tied to the man's feet, but then the laughter of the man echoed across the ship as the man was readied to be pushed over.
"This isn't over, Barbossa!" Bootstrap laughed as he fell. The cannon took him under immediately.
Barbossa shook himself. For once, that stuck-up righteous prig of a man was right. It had only begun. Now it was finally over.
Barbossa pushed open the doors to his cabin, and closed them quietly behind him. The girl whirled to face him, wearing the wine-dark silks he'd had in the hold. If such an occasion arose, one must always be ready to accommodate guests.
"Maid or not, it suits ye." Barbossa smiled.
The girl stared back, as much a prig as her father. "May I inquire into the fate of its previous owner?"
Barbossa pursed his lips and looked injured, "Ooh, now none of that."
He should feel something. Yes, yes he could. Lust, thirst, hunger, a wonderful sickness in the pit of his stomach. But sating them was impossible. All he had were the memories of the comforts now denied to him. These things were unreachable now. He could touch her face, now, and fuel the memory, the lust. But why? The crew would find more pleasure in her than he would. They were the men whose only desires were the next women in the next port. Barbossa, on the other hand... He considered himself above that. There were more pressing matters here than simply bedding a woman. Much more important matters.
He went towards her, pulled a seat from the table, and offered it to her. As the girl, Elizabeth Turner, sat down, Barbossa leant down and spoke into her ear.
"Dig in."