Incredible how POTC can click my brain on like a lightswitch. I can try to write for anything else, but I don't think anything will work nearly as well as POTC does.

I'm dead set on bringing people back from the dead. I'm tired of all my favorite characters going away and never coming back. It's sad, really.

Hooray for fanfictions.

Now, I spent well over an hour and a half on this (yes, I kept track). I watched this scene from the movie and everything. I have an obsession with getting the dialogue and moments exactly right when I record them. Enjoy!


It was either the blazing hot, scratchy sand that stuck to his face, or the twenty or so jabs and pokes here and there of crabs scattering across his body that woke him. Either or, he was alive.

It was hard to see at first, and this alarmed him, but his flicker of panic disappeared when he realized this irritating sand was beneath his eyelids as well. It was the least of the pain he felt, really. He lifted his head up an inch or so away from the ground, and just after doing so felt the abrasive texture of another crab brush against his cheek below his head.

Using whatever strength he could gather, he brought his hand to his face and gasped in horror at what he felt. His skin… it was covered in calloused ripples. He let his hand drop in front of his face, and he saw the skin on his hand looked just as bad as the skin on his face felt.

He was covered in burns. Covered. Was he really alive? Something so incredibly tragic that caused this physical damage couldn't have left him alive.

…Could it?

Pushing the ground with his aching muscles, Cutler Beckett attempted to lift himself from the heated earth below him. He managed to sit up – which surprised him self, given that it had taken all of his strength just to lift his head – and looked around at nothing. There wasn't anything around.

His eyes squinted as his eyes searched for life. Objects. He searched for anything but what he saw. Blankness. Emptiness. It was frightening, and he felt dangerously lonely.

Of all things to exist, why must it be the bloody sun? Beckett thought bitterly. He turned his head slightly, blinking repeatedly now that his only recently opened eyes were adjusted to the intense light that reflected off of everything that surrounded him.

There were hills, he noticed. They were hills of sand, of course, but it was more than the plain of very dry land before him. He wanted to go over those hills; he felt something about them… he wanted to explore whatever excitement might be around, opposing the blandness that made him want to scream (not like his lungs would have allowed him to anyway).

After taking a moment to recover the energy he had already spent, Beckett pushed against the burning sand once more, bringing himself to his feet. He stood as proudly as ever, though finding no need to show dominance; there was no one to view it. He found that it was more comfortable to slouch… his shoulder muscles thanked him gratefully for relaxing.

He felt the sand even on his feet, and realized parts of his clothing were shredded, the remains hanging loosely from what had managed to stay on his body. His boots were missing, and his socks were tattered. In fact, all that was left of his left sock was the wrapped cloth around his ankle.

Beckett had to lean forward and use his hands as he began to go up the hill; it was steeper than it appeared. He nearly fell forward when he reached for the sand that wasn't there. He looked up to see that he'd finally reached the top of this mysterious hill, and to his smug pleasure, he saw water; much of it. Something in the back of his mind reminded him of the ocean. He sighed, almost in relief, and closed his eyes. He lowered his head. He was already exhausted, and he took a moment before gazing up with only his eyes again.

It was so tempting… but he knew it wasn't possible. He needed to start thinking… clearly, anyway. But it would be difficult to do so in such suffocating temperatures. Desperate for shade – or whatever there was in this haunted nowhere – Beckett searched for anything that could assist him. The only thing he noticed was another hill; it was steeper, and it looked larger. If his sight was true, a shadow cast what appeared to be East of the hill, and he saw that the sun had gone lower since he'd first opened his eyes. He was taken slightly aback; had it taken him that long to move here? Did he truly lack so much strength?

Ignoring the somewhat disturbing grasp, Beckett made his way towards the hill on his hands and knees. It took him longer than it had just to make it to the top of the first hill, but he got there, and he collapsed in exhaustion once he did. He rested his head on his arm and breathed slow, controlled breaths.

He was beginning to become frustrated with himself; he had never felt so weak in his life, and it wasn't just the weakness that was getting to him. He was irritated that he couldn't think straight. He couldn't remember what he wanted, and overall, he didn't even know where the hell he was or how he'd gotten there.

Then, as if the mere thought had clicked the memory on, flashbacks flickered through his mind, and Beckett began to panic again. It was frightening how chaotic they were… how dangerous… how real

"Orders sir!" He heard Groves' voice. It was filled with panic and fear, and he briefly recalled the image of two magnificent ships making their way towards his own.

"Sir!" He saw his companion's face now, and the expression held nothing but terror.

Beckett groaned, holding his head in his hands. It was becoming clearer, and now he wanted it to stop. He no longer wanted to be sure of what he knew was true. If he had to lie to himself, then damn it he would. But he bloody hell would not believe that he was…

"Fire!" He knew that yell… it was the command of a pirate. He knew it so well that the mere memory of this voice made him shiver in fear.

"Fire!" Came a young voice, filled with energy and power. It was unmistakably another pirate.

"Fire!" Yet another pirate, this one was incredibly demanding. It was intense and fearless, and Beckett gritted his teeth. He had had enough

"Fire!" Came the last voice. It surprised Beckett to hear a woman's voice, but it mattered not. The four versions of this dreaded word was terrible enough, but to hear it come from three pirates and a woman? Beckett would not have it.

But he saw that he did nothing. It was terrifying… cannon shots blasted through the air, destroying his ship bit by bit. Wood and metal flew around him, and yet he was frozen.

"Orders!" Groves' petrified yell came again. "Orders sir!"

Beckett wanted to give orders, but he was unmoving with fear. He could not speak, he could only watch as everything he had worked for fell to pieces – or blasted to pieces, more like.

"Sir, what do you command!?" A new voice, yet filled with just as much fear, pierced Beckett's ears louder than the blasts of the cannons. He felt his lips move, and words were finally able to emit from his mouth.

"It's just… good business," he quoted himself. He felt the painful sting of bitter irony take over his mind.

"Abandon ship!" Groves commanded.

No! Beckett screamed in his head. No! Do not leave me! Do not leave this ship!

But they were gone. All sounds were fading away. All he could do now was watch. Watch and feel while making his way towards the still-whole stairs. It was as if they were waiting for him to walk down them before they could be destroyed.

A captain must go down with his ship, Beckett thought as he watched the disastrous scene in his mind. He felt a tear sliding down his cheek; it was as true as he didn't want it to be.

The banister was smooth and untouched, and Beckett kept his hand on it, walking slowly down the steps. Splints of destroyed wood flew around him. He felt untouchable as long as he touched that rail, but as he walked past the last step, he knew it was gone, and he stood as tall and proud as he could while he felt heat overwhelm him.

He felt air now. He was soaring through it, and he felt as though he were safe for a brief, unbelievable moment.

And then he felt water. Well, no, he felt pain first. Beckett realized it was probably the impact of hitting the water. He felt it surround him, but he could do nothing. He couldn't bring himself to, and he didn't know whether it was from shock or the recognition of failure.

Becket clenched his fist, tightening his grip around the sand he'd grasped with it. He lifted his hand for a moment, then brought it down with everything he had. He cried out angrily, screaming at the top of his lungs. His throat burned; this was not what his body needed, but he didn't care. He didn't care about his bloody body right now. He didn't care about his ship. He didn't care about his crew.

What could he care about? He had nothing.

He was dead. He was gone… gone from the world he had known for years. He cursed the damned spot he had chosen to think in. He wished he never had. He would rather feel the pain of years of this demonic sun that beat down on his already burned skin than the pain of the memories that were eating at his sanity.

He finally allowed himself to breathe. He coughed harshly, only causing his throat more pain, but he dismissed it once again. His face half buried in the crook of his elbow, he gritted his teeth again as tear after tear found its way down the wavy skin of intensely burned skin. Crying was something Beckett had hardly ever done, even as a child. To cry was to be weak, but it was nothing more than what he already felt, so why not?

He was dead. He was gone… gone from everyone he had come to know. None of which he had become very fond of, mind you, but each had looked at him as someone powerful, whether or not they admired him or hated him for that very reason.

Beckett started to feel less and less. His eyelids lowered softly, and he allowed himself to sleep. He liked sleep as much as he liked tears, but again, to sleep was to be vulnerable.

Who was around to care?


I tried to make this a powerful chapter.

Let me know just how powerful it was. The next chapter will be up soon enough. :)