Seven Sentiments
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: PotC and all the characters belong to Disney/Bruckheimer. No copyright infringement intended.
A/N: Short character drabbles for Dead Man's Chest based on specific emotions, mostly just for writing practice. But I figured I'd post them here in case anyone's interested.
1. REGRET - Bootstrap Bill, Davy Jones
2. AGONY – Davy Jones
3. AMBITION – James Norrington
4. RESOLVE – Jack Sparrow
5. SORROW – Tia Dalma
6. EXPECTATION – Hector Barbossa, Tia Dalma
7. SHOCK – Elizabeth Swann
* * * * *
REGRET
William Turner – no, none called him William any longer, hadn't heard that name pass from anyone's lips in many, long years – Bootstrap Bill stood still amidst the barren bleakness that made up the Captain's quarters, only the quiet dribbling of water sliding down the seaweed masquerading as his hair broke the quiet occasionally. He stood still and he waited, weary and resigned, a mere shell of a man – in more ways than one, as the irony was. He could hazard a guess as to what it was the Captain wanted of him, and the thought filled him with anxious discomfiture. Had the time already ran out? He couldn't remember, the passing of the years had merged and jumbled together in a blurry monotony for him. Turning at last from the monstrous organ that dominated the far end of the dark bowels of his quarters, Davy Jones spoke.
"Time has come for Jack Sparra to pay his debt," he uttered austerely in the quietness, pale blue eyes narrowing as his remorseless gaze fell upon the silent man before him. A surging wave went through the very tips of the tentacles that made up his beard, and his sneer held both malice and a smidgen of glee, "And who better to inform him of this than an old friend?"
As much as he was loath to do so, Bootstrap Bill could only close his eyes and hang his head in unspoken acquiescence.
* * * *
AGONY
Pain.
The situation was ripe with it, and Davy Jones sensed every little bit, could almost taste it. The paternal anguish of Bootstrap Bill's was utterly palpable from the moment he laid eyes on the whip in Jones' hand, the terror caused by the sheer thought of flogging his own son shining in his watery eyes. The cries of pain young master Turner valiantly tried to suppress as the leather bit harshly into the flesh of his back and drew crimson blood, the tears that fell from his father's eyes as he raised his hand to strike over and over again… they all fed the simmering pit of blackness within Davy Jones' heartless being. His rubbery lips twitched as he watched Turner's physical pain with darkened eyes, the ends of the tentacles of his beard rippling up and down as the dark emotion welled within him at the display.
These two knew nothing of true pain, had never experienced an agony so deep and so forceful it was incapacitating, so severe it left one with nothing. Young Turner's fleeting physical discomfort or Bootstrap's trifle fatherly worry could never match even a smidgen of that excruciating, physical and emotional torture he had known long time ago, the one that drove him into carving out his very beating heart from his chest and hiding it away from the world… all because of her…!
The boy cried out once more as the leather lashed one final time across his back, and Bootstrap threw the whip down on the rain-slicked deck, staring at the bleeding welts on his son's back with horrified expression. The boy breathed harshly, shoulders shaking and jaw clenched tightly, eyes squeezed shut against the hurt. Salt water splattered from his mouth as Davy Jones hissed quietly at the surges of anguish about him, enjoying them. None would ever feel the same excruciating pain that he did, but that didn't mean he couldn't try to give others a small taste of misery, as well.
"Let them have their family reunion in peace," he spat, glancing from the father to the son, "Haul that weakling from my sight!"
He didn't stay long enough to see this done, but turned on his heel and stomped unsteadily with mismatched legs back to his quarters, desiring the ominous tunes of his organ to soothe the churning within and drown out the soft chime of the music box that had begun to play in his mind.
* * * *
AMBITION
While Will Turner staggered to his feet after the wheelbarrow had finally stopped, sloshing unsteadily towards Elizabeth in the shallow waters, James Norrington – formerly the Commodore of the British Royal Navy, now a scruffy semi-drunkard degraded into washing decks of a pirate vessel with his wig – ignored the skirmish around and took off towards the longboat where he knew Jack had left his coat in; the same coat that contained the signed letters of marque in its pocket. Single-minded determination drove him onward as he ran, reaching the boat soon enough in his haste. Quickly, James grabbed the weather-beaten coat and rummaged through the pockets, locating the flat, brown leather casing in the inside breast pocket. Elated smile tugged at his lips as he gazed at the object in his hands; he was one step closer to achieving his goal of gaining back his old life. That was all he wanted, and oh, how badly did he want it!
Out of the corner of his eye, James caught sight of the dirt jar Jack had clutched possessively to his chest during the boat ride to the isle, as if afraid it would be snatched from him unless he kept it as close as possible. But it wasn't the tawny dirt within the thick glass that caught James' eye, no. It was the slowly pulsating, red heart that captivated the former Commodore so wholly. It was right there for the taking. The very thing Lord Beckett was after. Everyone was busy, nobody would notice if he…
Indecision seized him, and suddenly he felt torn. Lifting his gaze from the jar, he watched Jack fend off one of Davy Jones' men. Decent men did not trade one man's life to another. But Sparrow was a pirate, a pirate that had cost him his ship, crew and commission...
"…You ended up a rumpot deckhand what takes orders from a pirate…"
James' temper flared as Jack's needling words abruptly came back to him. Never that! His hands grabbed the jar before he properly even realized it, wrenching open the thick lid and scooping up the sand-stained heart.
"Sorry, Jack," he muttered aloud. "I really am."
As he pocketed the letters of marque and joined the fray around, the small part of him that felt guilty hoped that Jack would be as witty as claimed and come up with an alternative way of escaping his plight.
* * * *
RESOLVE
"Hello, Beastie."
If asked to describe how he'd imagine leaving this good, green earth behind, being consumed by a bizarre, stinking mythological creature with obvious problems of controlling its mucus secretion was not quite the first option Jack would have come up with.
But, he supposed there could have been worse ways to go. Certainly it was better than starving to death on a deserted island with no rum. Not by much, though, but enough. There was also a slightly twisted sense of amusement that welled within him at the thought of, basically, being doomed to death because of a woman – it was such a cliché that the notion rather appealed to Jack. Well, at least this demise was somewhat imaginative and made a good story, one befitting the image of Captain Jack Sparrow. It was right up to par with the sea turtles, no question about it. He trusted Gibbs to put in some additional flair to the tale, as was the older man's wont. Spurred on by adrenaline and anger over the demolished state of his Pearl, Jack gripped his cutlass tightly and charged at the tentacled monstrosity before him.
If nothing else, Jack was determined to give the beast some mean indigestion, at the very least.
* * * *
SORROW
The crab claws fell from her hands that suddenly went slack, clattering upon the worn tabletop while she drew in a sharp breath, closing her eyes for a moment. Slowly opening them once more, Tia Dalma stared down at the arrangement of the claws before her, reading their message with ease. They told her no different than what she already knew beforehand. It had happened. Witty-Jack was gone, dragged down to the black depths of the sea along with his precious Pearl. A small, sad smirk lifted the corner of her mouth; even you cannot control destiny, Jack Sparrow, despite your best efforts.
She discerned the sense of loss, confusion and sadness that had descended upon his friends left behind, picking up one particularly intense feeling of guilt. A smile of satisfaction curled her lips; it was as it should be. The time would come for all to redeem themselves, if they had the patience and resolve for it. Wiping a brisk hand across the claws and pushing them aside, Tia Dalma rose slowly from her chair. Soon, there would be guests in her humble shack, and she needed to prepare for them and their sorrow. But first... she glanced over to where the softly chattering monkey kept vigil over a prone body wearing black boots.
But first, there was another matter she had to take care of.
* * * *
EXPECTATION
Hector Barbossa filled his burning lungs with air in huge gulps, gasping and wheezing as if he was about to suffocate despite his best efforts to draw breath. A myriad of sensations ran through him, most of them unpleasant, and suddenly the realization that he could indeed feel, feel the way he hadn't felt in years, bore down on him with such fierce intensity it seized his attempts to regulate his erratic breathing for a second… and then it all came back to him, the mutiny, Isla de Muerta, the curse, ten long years of searching for the scattered pieces, the girl with the medallion, Bootstrap Bill's son… and Jack Sparrow. Sparrow staring at him with solemn eyes, clutching his smoking pistol… the warmth of his own blood spilling down his chest and the coldness that clawed its way through his body right after…
"Welcome back to de worl' of de living, Hector Barbossa," a husky, thickly accented voice cut in his fervent thoughts, banishing the uneasy sensations and anchoring him in the present as it drifted down from somewhere above him.
World of the living? Barbossa couldn't understand what had just happened – or rather, how it had happened. "How's this possible…?" he croaked, his voice hoarse and faint.
Squinting his eyes, he focused with effort to the figure that stood by the bedside, gazing down at his prone form. Slowly, after his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he made out a woman of unusual stature. Thick dreadlocks as dark as her skin tumbled down her shoulders, small, white feathers woven into them here and there. Haunting, faintly bloodshot eyes stared right into his, and a full-lipped mouth stretched into pleased smile that revealed two rows of filthy, blackened teeth. There was a mysterious aura about the woman, some sort of elusive and potent force that advised Barbossa to proceed with caution. "You… brought me back?"
"Yes," she nodded as if this was the simplest thing in the world, her enigmatic smile never wavering.
"Ye seem to be knowin' mine, but I fear I failed to catch your name, lady," Hector ventured slowly after a moment of thought, deciding to take one thing at a time.
"Tia Dalma, they call me," she replied, her voice gaining a bit of flair and volume as she did. Then she gave him another of those slow smiles, and added huskily again, "You do the same."
"Well, Miss Dalma," Barbossa paused, drawing a steadying breath before going on, interested and suspicious, "Might you tell me how it was that ye brought me from the eternal sleep back into living, and what for?"
"Still your curiosity!" Tia Dalma held up one palm. "For now, let me just say that we have a… mutual friend in need of a little… aid," she smirked, turning her gaze from Hector to the screeching monkey at the foot of Barbossa's bed. The implications of that look became clear to Barbossa only after a moment of thought.
"Jack Sparrow?"
Tia Dalma grinned. "Time will come for de old rivalries to be set aside… if only for a while. Why and when will come clear later."
The cryptic remark did little to ease Barbossa's suspicions, but he figured the voodoo woman knew what she was talking about. And… Jack had his ship, and Barbossa had a mind to get her back. For the first time since his unnatural awakening, Barbossa grinned and chuckled to himself.
He couldn't wait to see the look on Jack's face when they finally did meet again.
* * * *
SHOCK
What sort of a man trades a man's life for a ship?
Elizabeth Swann's own contemptuous words now returned to haunt her in the candlelit shack of Tia Dalma's. She trembled, but not from the cold. Tears stung her eyes, but she stubbornly blinked them away. Shock and guilt ate away at her, and her quivering hands found no warmth in the drink inside the mug their understanding hostess had provided. She could hardly believe the act she had committed, had done the very same thing she had been so appalled by a year ago. She had traded the life of a man she admired for the life of the man she loved, consciously and purposefully. It was the only way. She had to, she couldn't stand the thought of losing Will, her dearest Will, before they were even married… leaving Jack behind was the only way. That creature would have destroyed them all.
It was the only way. Elizabeth kept repeating the argument over and over in her mind. The tears she'd kept at bay now slowly trailed down her dirt-streaked face.
Mister Gibbs' words about Jack's honest streak winning out caused a sharp stab of blame to go through her, and the metallic click of the shackles closing around his wrist rung anew in her ears – they had no idea of her deed. Her throat felt tight, but she managed a salute in Jack's memory, voicing the one line she had stuck with through thick and thin. She raised the mug to her lips, but couldn't bring herself to drink; she suddenly felt nauseated. Jack had been right all along. Against her own beliefs, she truly had been capable of being untrustworthy, to betray someone.
Just like a pirate.
Desperately, Elizabeth wished for redemption.
(fin)