Never Shall We Die
Rating: T for some piratey language.
Disclaimer: Disney/Bruckheimer owns PotC and all the characters.
Summary: "It rather peeved Jack to lose his ship again, but he wasn't about to despair." The ending of AWE, from Jack's point of view.
A/N: One of my older PotC vignettes I found on my computer, thought I'd put it up here. Hope you like.
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A wide, smug grin spread to Jack's lips as he rolled open the chart, staring at the markings gleefully. Which way are you going, Hector? He mocked in his mind, tossing back the words he'd been forced to swallow on that accursed shore in the Locker. That mutinous cur might have his ship, but Jack possessed the bearings – and this time he planned on keeping them all to himself. It rather peeved Jack to lose his ship again, but he wasn't about to despair. He had his compass, a boat that didn't leak (least not yet) and most importantly, he had rum.
Wind blew through his hair and the open horizon stretched before him as far as the eye could see, and the familiar rhythm of the dinghy rocking over the waves made the giddy feel of utter freedom rush through his veins until he near shivered. This was all that Jack Sparrow would ever need, would ever crave; the sea.
…That and rum. Perhaps some salty wenches every now and then, too. A distasteful sniff crunched up his nose at the memory of another failed attempt at securing the said wenches – he could swear his cheek still tingled. That was entirely Hector's fault, too. Bloody mongrel caused trouble even when he wasn't around. Well, maybe mister Gibbs had better luck on that account.
Truthfully, Jack didn't put this stunt past Hector, of course. He knew the old bugger better than that. If fact he had been expecting it, just not quite this soon. But what really made his eye twitch was the fact that he once again had a crew who'd do that. Good help was impossible to find, it seemed. Well, that scary one with the eye and his plump chum didn't count, they were dodgy since day one. But men like Mr. Cotton, too! Bet it was that parrot that talked him into it, Jack had always had a suspicion there was something fishy about that bird. …Figuratively speaking, of course. Jack had not forgotten about that plank remark, not likely. Stupid mutinous poultry.
With a small growl of frustration, Jack grabbed the bottle of rum and took a drink. Savoring the taste and instantly feeling better, he returned his eyes on the dusky horizon. A quick check of the compass told him that he was still on course. Satisfied, Jack settled more comfortably on the uncomfortable seat of the dinghy, absently swirling the rum about the bottle.
It had been an interesting couple of days, if nothing else. He had practically been dead only some odd days ago, stuck in that god-awful place. Well, that was left behind, but more death followed soon after. Aside the nameless, faceless folk lost during all of it, there were the familiar ones. There was the Governor, a mere pawn on Beckett's chessboard, discarded when no longer useful. Beckett and his way of using people in such selfish way made Jack's hackles rise; his demise was one he heartily approved of.
There was the Commodore, erm, former Commodore, Admiral, or whatever bloody title it was that he had. James Norrington. Clueless as he might often come off as being, Jack was hardly stupid. While he didn't know any particulars, what little he had heard spoke of bravery, even if also of slight self-sacrificing foolishness. But then… Jack knew what love could do to a man, and there was no doubt that the former Commodore had been a man in love. It mattered little that it was unrequited. It was a shame, Jack realized. Norrington was undoubtedly one of those good fellows who would've deserved better, but got the bitter end. Jack had actually enjoyed trading words with him. Testing his resolve and patience had amused him, because Norrington didn't suffer for it without retaliation. The misadventure with the chest on Isla Cruces had also revealed a side of the good former Commodore he hadn't seen before; a man who did what needed to pursue his own agendas. How very piratey of him.
Yes, James Norrington was not so bad. Even if he did try to hang him. Ah, well. Jack supposed he could forgive him that. Silently, he raised the bottle in wordless salute and took a sip, more subdued this time. Here's one for you, former Commodore.
As for the whelp and his little murderess… William, well. What was there to say about that, really? Jack liked the whelp, he really did. He knew he didn't always act accordingly to that, but he was fond of the boy. Solemnity settled upon Jack as he thought back on those moments where Jones dug the blade into Will's chest, those few jarring moments where, for once, Jack had been shocked into stupor and completely at loss on what exactly to do next. It was rather unpleasant, and he never wanted to feel that way ever again. At the end, having Will stab the heart was the only thing to keep him alive… well, around. It was a confounding concept, really; that straight-as-lace lad that had charged into that damned cell block in Port Royal, fire and scorn in his eyes, was now captaining the infamous Flying Dutchman, his beating heart locked away in a chest guarded by his doughty damsel.
While Jack wouldn't be shedding any tears over them, he knew it was a touch unfair. He recognized the toll it must take on both of them, to be separated in such fashion. Ten years was a terribly long time to be parted of something you held dear, Jack knew this very well. But what was the alternative? Will would be dead and gone forever, and Elizabeth… who knew? She was a tough girl, but to lose so many beloved people in such a short time would be overwhelming.
It was a funny, twisted ole world.
Jack knew he hadn't remained unchanged himself, either. The Locker was stuff straight from his nightmares, and while he'd been called "mad" plentiful times, the time he spent there gave the word a whole new meaning. A shudder went down his spine at the mere thought. Never again, if he had any say in it. Still… he couldn't deny that he still felt strong attraction to the whole immortality business. To sail the seas without a care in the world until the end of times sounded more than agreeable to Jack.
His gaze fell on the chart again, smirk spreading to his lips. Luckily for him, there was more than one way to live forever, wasn't there?
"You could've had your immortality, you know, had you not been such a bloody ninny in the end and gone back on our plan," his own voice suddenly vocalized. Jack was pretty sure, however, that the words didn't come out of his mouth.
Pursing his lips and turning his head, Jack stared at the figure of himself perched on the side of the boat. The doppelgänger cocked his head to the side and pouted mockingly. "But no, you had to save the boy instead. Had to do the 'right thing'. Same thing with the slaves back then, you just had to have your little hero moment, eh?"
Jack rolled his eyes lazily and lifted one leg, promptly throwing his boot sole smack-dab in the double's middle – with wide eyes and a surprised yell, the look-alike fell backwards in the water, arms flailing. The splash brought a satisfied smirk to Jack's lips.
"There's room for only one madman's ramblings on this boat, mate: mine," he drawled, taking a swig out of his bottle and enjoying the ensued silence. Jack knew it probably wouldn't last for long, but he'd make the most of what little he got. Right now, he had other concerns. He had his ship and the fountain of youth to seek out.
"…Devils and black sheep and really bad eggs…" the murmured under his breath, the lyrics dying away as he hummed a low tune that changed suddenly along with the wind.
"…Never shall we die…"
(fin)