Towards the Horizon
Jasmine Signet
The rum was meant to drown his sorrows; to make him forget. To make him angry about the time she had burned the rum. To make him happy he was free and on the sea. But the rum brought back unwelcome memories of islands and dancing around fires and songs and happiness and…freedom.
The rum was supposed to burn his way down his throat; to burn out all thoughts of her and his stupid mistakes and her pain and her anger and his stinging cheek and Will.
Mostly Will. Will and the way he had betrayed him. The way he had wanted his Elizabeth, his friend's woman.
For she was his, however much he wanted to think otherwise. However much she had wanted him too. However much she had wanted to run away with him. However much he had said no. However much she had slapped him. However much he had still wanted Will's Elizabeth.
Wasn't that, after all, the reason he had run away from Port Royal? So that she would forget him and get on with her life? Will would not, Jack was sure, be appreciative of his wife running off with Jack Sparrow into the horizon. And so, even though she had asked him to let her sail on the Black Pearl, he had said no.
Wasn't that why he'd left the pistol on Elizabeth's nightstand and gone? Notes were not his forte; he had left one for Giselle a couple of years back and she had sent messages for him that had resulted in more stinging cheeks and pain. But he'd hoped that the symbolic message would be enough for her to understand; hoped that she wouldn't take one look at it and throw it into the harbour.
Hoped that she would remember. Remember him, and remember how sorry he was, for what he was and for what he wasn't.
Then again, it was Elizabeth, his – no, Will's – feisty pirate lass. She would take a look at it and throw it into the harbour. Or, even worse, she would hail down a sailor or two and force him to sail to Tortuga and give it back to him.
He hoped she wouldn't throw it into the harbour. It was a fine pistol.
The rum was making him think. He didn't want to think – in fact, this was one of the many times in his life that he wanted to be completely and utterly inebriated. He had never thought, never in his wildest dreams, that a woman – a married woman, nonetheless – would want not to settle down with him, but to set sail with him and to live his life. He was Captain Jack Sparrow, he of the broken hearts and the jealous husbands. He of the short flings and the complete disregard of innocence and commitment.
He wouldn't have minded sailing off with dear Lizzie off into the horizon, no, not at all. A man needed a wench at his side and in his bed.
He took another swig of the rum. It burned its way down his throat, but it did not make him forget. No. it reminded him of a Lizzie trying to shoot a net filled with barrels of…rum. Reminded him of knowing what he wanted most was on his ship. Reminded him of his pirate lass.
No, Will's lady.
No, she was a pirate, and a bloody fine one at that. He glared moodily at the strumpet who was trying to sit on his lap. He tipped the rum down his throat again.
Damn. Empty. He stumbled drunkenly up and weaved his way to the bar.
'Captain Jack Sparrow!'
He twisted and nearly fell over. Damn, he was drunk. But the rum was gone… needed more rum… he was hallucinating now. Yes. Hallucinating. Oh, good. The rum was working. But of all things to hallucinate.
His head snapped back and he frowned. Apparently this was not a hallucination. He didn't think he could hallucinate that much pain.
'Lizzie, luv,' he said, 'what can ol' Jack do for you?'
A/N: I'm thinking of turning this into a kind of series of small vignettes... Might, might not. Depends on whether my muse decides to return from the Black Pearl. :P Well, reviews are appreciated!