A/N: THis is (obviously) a death fic. I originally wrote it as a short story for English (a twist required) and as much as I like that original version, I want this version up. If you would like to read the full version, pm me. If you want a copy of the full version, also, pm me. And thank-you too my two reviewers, who read the draft, original version when this was first posted.

Dying

I'm dying, or at least, I think I am. I'm lying here, on deck, and I can feel my blood pooling around me in a hot puddle. No one's paying attention to me because I'm just another dying enemy, another almost dead Navy man. The pirates are running around me, yelling and cursing, shouting threats at my attacking comrades. Swords and cutlasses swing through the air, meeting one another or slicing through flesh. As I watch, pistol shots leave trails of smoke in the thick air above my head. The ship beneath me is shaking as her cannons fire.

Now my men are fleeing and the surrounding pirates cheer. Why are they leaving me? I don't panic; don't really have the energy too. But I do feel a deep sense of regret. Oddly, that's all there is; no fear, only regret. I know I should be afraid. I am a Commodore of the Royal Navy, and I am dying aboard a pirate ship. Any pirate would see to it that an officer's death would be as painful as possible. Then again Captain Sparrow isn't just any pirate. Perhaps that is why I am not scared. I know Captain Sparrow isn't one for torture. He isn't cruel. I don't like the man, but I will give him that.

I can only see the blue, hot sky above me, the endlessness of it broken by black sails shaking with strain. The deck groans and shifts, slanting to starboard. They –the pirates- are pulling away, but taking no prisoners. We were the ones to start the skirmish, so it makes sense. I can't help but wonder why we are retreating though. Sparrow likely won't give chase, but maybe, just maybe someone will come back for me. Or… a ridiculous thought enters my head. Maybe he won't let me die, maybe… A booted foot kicks me in my injured side, sending a deathly pain shooting through me.

"Aaah!" I cry out and try to curl around the wound. Dying people don't tend to be energetic. We're more lethargic really.

"'E's alive Cap'n, bu' just." That's when I realize that the blue has disappeared from my vision and I can't see who is talking. I hear someone crouch down beside me, a knee popping.

"Tha's funny that they left you, Commodore." Oh, I know who this one is. His voice, the way he twists my title to make it sound like my name, unforgettable.

"I expect they had good reason." I rasp out, weary. I am tired, so, so tired.

"Aye," he falls silent then says, with effort it seems, "Yer not goin' te last long ye know."

"I know." I agree quietly, there is no point in denying it. I feel slow, and heavy; my own body weight seems to pin me to the rolling deck.

"Captain…" I muster enough energy to get the word out.

"Aye?"

What do I want to say? I want to say something, anything that can explain to him my feelings. My thoughts chase circles through my head before something comes to me.

"I was rooting for you, too." I almost hear his smile; that damn golden grin of his.

"Wot did 'e say?" the first speaker, the one I can't identify, is asking Sparrow. Time is passing slowly, everything I hear seems to be delayed.

"It doesn't matter luv." Sparrow says. Two pairs of rough hands, I assume one pair is Sparrow's, hoist me up and bear me to the larboard rail. Funny that, I can still tell larboard from starboard even though I'm dying and can't even see. The sounds are getting fainter all around me. Sparrow and his crewman heave me over with no ceremony but as I fall I hear him say,

"May God have mercy on your soul."

Thank you, Captain Sparrow.