Not for Love or Devotion
Chapter (1?)
Author's Note: I don't usually put author's notes in the beginning of my fics, because it's tacky, but I feel that I should for this one. This is a warning: Read the summary! It tells you everything you need to know about this fic. If you can't imagine teh Capitaine with anyone besides who you want him to be with, prepare for disappointment. Those with open minds, enjoy.
Jack Sparrow, newly- reinstated Captain of the Black Pearl, was relaxing in his cabin after a long day under the sun, shouting orders and wearing boots that hurt his feet. He had been in his cabin for a while, lost track of time. All he knew was that it was dark outside, and he hadn't yet managed to drink himself to sleep.
He reflected ruefully on his narrow escape from Port Royal two days ago. He wasn't sad to leave any of that lot behind, but Elizabeth was a forgone opportunity that he knew he would regret until he got back to Tortuga. He hadn't been particularly attracted to her, no more than he was to any other woman, but in his opinion, Will needed to be taken down a notch, same with Norrington.
The single lit candle, with it's base melted on to the table, caught his attention as it guttered and threw blurry patches of yellow light on the walls. His thoughts progressed from one failed conquest to many successful ones…the dark Spanish girl…the nun…the Chinese princess…He didn't commit them to memory by name, and there were certainly too many to remember without writing them down…he catalogued the more interesting ones by situation. The princess, the cannibal chief's daughter, the American lady…they had all the worth of sand on a beach to him now, and he could count on never seeing any of them again.
But, there was one- he punctuated this thought by a fortifying swig of rum- he would always remember, not for love or devotion, but because of how they met, and what she did for him.
Jack moved his free hand up to touch the scars on his right breast. He felt two small, round, familiar marks, neither more than a centimeter across.
"Tia Dalma," he mumbled to himself. He would remember her name until he died, and, knowing her, she would probably help him remember it in the afterlife, too.