Hello all! It's me again, and with a new PotC fanfiction! This idea came from an extremely moving and sad Sparrabeth video I saw on youtube, made my ediepedie productions, and set to the song of "Brothers On a Hotel Bed" by Death Cab For Cutie.(I'll put up the link at the end of this story because you all MUST watch it. It's one of theamazingvideos ever.I just don't want it to ruin the plot for you!) The plot was wonderful and I contacted Edie to see if she'd be alright with me writing about it, so, COMPLETE credit goes to her for the events in this fanfic. Writing was by me, loves. Thank god she was just as enthused about it as I was! Anyway, this came up as my first chapter for it, and I'm rather proud of it. Edie is my beta reader and I'm so entirely relieved that she loves it as well and has helped me perfect it. I hope you guys love it too. Please review!

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Dear Jordan

Dedicated to Brianna and Edie

Chapter 1

The tip of the quill was placed firmly into the hand-pressed paper, but no more words were written. None seemed to come out, untangle themselves from the mess in Jack's mind. His heart was thumping heavily within his empty ribcage; he could hear his blood pounding within his ears. The noise did nothing to help his brain connect with his heart and hand, to guide his fingers across the paper and create the last document that would be written by the man himself.

His joints were sore and old, worn from decades of hard work. It took far too much effort for him to simply raise his arm and dip the end of the feather's wick into the ebony ink. It took the breath from him at the simple movement of removing his aged, scuffed hat from atop his head and placing it on the desk before him.

The years had changed this man, this infamous pirate lord. He was no longer easy on the eyes, wrinkles and scars marring the features that had once been so dashing. Decades of life had taken their toll on him, molding him into the body of an elderly man and disguising the youth he had once been. But he was still Jack. He was still Captain Jack Sparrow, no matter what his aged features said otherwise.

Though his heart was heavy with the grieving he'd endured and his bones had become weary, his hair grew longer and coarser but did not dare turn gray. His face, riddled with wrinkles and other signs of aging, presented the obvious look of aching that still wracked his old body. And though it took all his strength even to sit at this desk within his equally infamous pirate ship, though it nearly crippled him to repeatedly dip the end of his quill into the ink and then place it again to the paper… he pushed on.

"Dear Jordan,"

It was all he had written, all that had managed to tumble out of his grieving, nervous brain. He had never been a man of many colorful, comforting, soothing words. He had never quite mastered the art of revealing how he felt, especially on a thing as simple and flat and bland as paper.How was he supposed to spill years of the things left unsaid onto such an unworthy canvas?

Jack stared blankly at his hands. They had grown larger and thicker, callus overtaking whatever soft flesh he had all those years ago. Ink tattoos were still etched into his skin, scars leaving marks upon his fingers and palms, and his same rings and bracelets still cluttered his wrists and knuckles. These were the hands that had once held so much in them: the hilt of a sword, the wheel of his ship the face of his wife, the tiny flailing hand of his…

Jack's quill clattered across his desk. It was no use. The pirate lord could not think of a single thing to say that had not already been in their silence. And what, possibly, could ever be said to young Jordan? Honestly, his old mind could barely even register the name anymore. He'd almost forgotten what the child looked like, and such a thing was not a feeling Jack was fond of. His memory was slipping, as was his life.

With some kind of effort buried deep within, the Captain managed to lift himself from the wooden chair he sat on. Hands braced against the crowded surface of his desk, he struggled to regain his balance for a moment until he could stand up straight, to his full height. The "broken" compass was placed carefully on the corner of the paper he'd been trying so desperately to write upon. Like his quill, his brain, his heart, the compass was of no use; the arrow had been pointing in the same direction for ten years now.

He took staggering steps, as if he were still intoxicated, as if the sensation of drunkenness had been stained into his very being. And it probably had. The man and consumed an obscene amount of rum in the course of his youth, his adulthood. Even now, in his elder years, the habit remained. And as Jack turned on the heel of his boots to wrap his bony fingers around a bottle of rum, it was clear that he hadn't changed much.

Then again, he wasn't really who he used to be.

The pirate groaned, flicking his dark eyes across the interior of his Captain's Quarters. It was beyond his words to describe the memories this cabin held, and beyond his mind to remember much of them. Every smile and kiss, every moment of triumph and joy were quietly leaking from his memory, yet the darkest of his days remained permanently imprinted on his brain, unable and unwilling to be forgotten.

Perhaps… within just a slim chance, if he let himself reminisce, the task of writing his fateful letter would be that much easier. Perhaps if he finally gave up on suppressing things, thoughts and words would come together; maybe he'd give a definition to what he'd left unknown. With such an intention in mind, the pirate swallowed the rum that was in his mouth and moved again to place himself back into his chair. He blinked unintelligently down at the paper that held only a greeting and a name, and felt his heart beat faster as if he'd just again realized…

It's been 30 years since he saved her from drowning…