Right. I watched POTC 3. Again. For Davy Jone's fans. Enjoy.
- That
Disclaimer : I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean. Disney does. (shudder)
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Jones slid down the crooked, ebony stairs, a disgusted look on his dark, dripping face. Above him, a great fight was held, both his crew members and enemies dying. He glanced up at the sound of a gurgled screech as a fallen soldier tumbled down the stairs and remained unmoving. Without even a hint of emotion, he stepped over the man and continued down the hall of his large, disembodied ship, his clawed hand reaching forward.
In front of him stood a young man, no older than seventeen, draped in a navy uniform that swallowed his frail body. His tawny, auburn hair fell over his abnormally wide, green eyes, making it seem almost impossible to see where he was going. He pointed the rifle at the strong fish man with shaking hands, his eyes off in another word.
" It'll do you no good," chuckled Jones in a thick accent that was drowned out by the sound of water moving around in his mouth like rapids in a river, twisting the rifle that still lay in the boy's hands with a loud squeak. " Yer can't kill me."
The soldier dropped the disfigured rifle without a second thought, taking a small step away.
" Scared, are ye?"
" N-no," he boy said, pulling a sword from one of his dead comrades bodies and pointing the crimson tip at him.
" Oh really? Tell me, boy, do you fear death?" Jones asked, his tentacles wriggling around him.
" Y-yes. But it's best to die as a fighter, not as a coward," the boy said in barely a whisper, wisdom beyond his years flowing though his dry lips. He raised the sword, his feet planted firmly on the ground. His youthful face reflected in the sword. Jones laughed hysterically.
" Go ahead!" he ordered, his arms spread out at his sides. The boy faltered, his eyes filled with fear. " Take yer best shot," Jones hissed.
The boy stared at his feet, a tear rolling down his soft cheek.
" Scared to kill me, then?" Jones asked, grinning at the terrified young man. Without a word he snapped the sword from him and shoved it into his chest. The boys eyes widened, his face paling. He reached out blindly and entangled his hands in Jone's tentacles, a gasp escaping his lips as blood dropped onto the floor in handfuls. Jones pulled away and watched the boy sink to the cold, wet floor, lying in his own blood. The colour left his eyes, and, as he whimpered in pain, he stopped moving. He stepped on the boy as he left, hearing a satisfying crack as bones broke. He was absorbed in his own thoughts.
He ignored the fact that he was feeling guilt over the young man. He ignored the fact that the boy wouldn't kill him. Didn't want to kill him. He forgot that the boy was small and helpless, and that he didn't want to die. Why wouldn't he?
After all, he was a heartless beast.
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Alright, I'm sorry. I know that was horrible. I can't concentrate on writing at the moment. Constructive criticism is accepted, flames are extinguished.