Wow, I haven't been on here for an incredibly long period of time. I felt an overwhelming urge, however, to work on a Pirates of the Caribbean piece, and decided to come back to Fanfiction! Anyway, the work is done in third person from several different perspectives, although later it'll likely be Jack- and OC-centric. I don't own anything related to Pirates of the Caribbean, but my OC character is mine. Enjoy,

The lone pirate in the sloop looked at the rolling dark clouds that crept across the blue sky, took a swig of rum, and swore viciously. The wicked greenish skies were not some sort of appalling hallucination brought on by lack of rum; they were quite real. Jack Sparrow was none too happy about having the misfortune to sail right for a storm front, but beyond it was a real treasure. As the small ship crested a wave, white foam was thrown over the sides, splattering across his boots. The weather was a fickle mistress, indeed; Jack sighed, placed the bottle of rum carefully aside, and moved to get the ropes of the ship's sail.

Of course, when he was the captain of the Black Pearl, he had run the gauntlet of many gales that few buccaneers, nay, men of the sea in general, would sneeze at. But the ominous rumble of thunder suggested that a real tempest was approaching, and he wasn't quite sure his little sloop would hold up if he sailed through it. He wouldn't be Captain Jack Sparrow though, if he wasn't touched enough to attempt it; besides, immortality was a worthy end indeed.

With a reckless grin, and a toss of his beaded dreadlocks, Jack slipped his hand into the innermost pocket of his well worn coat. His fingers brushed past the rolled up bamboo map that supposedly led to the Fountain of Youth; his smile grew even wider when he thought of dear Hector Barbossa, sitting on the Black Pearl, opening up the map that didn't belong to him, and realizing what a fool he'd been to try and pull the wool over old Jack's eyes. His fingers closed however, around a smooth, wooden object; a 'broken' compass that didn't point to the north. When he pulled it out of his pocket, the ebony box was a comforting, familiar weight in his hand, as it had been in his pocket. With a snap, the compass was opened, and Jack studied the lazily spinning needle as it arced left and right, finally stopping to point at the cradle of immortality that lay beyond the angry storm.

With the compass' reading vindicating his first assumption to navigate through the storm, Jack sailed onward.

Of course, he should have expected that the two buffoons were going to come and inquire about the map; they had, after all, been on the Pearl in the days before the mutiny, and if they'd managed to let any scrap of information penetrate their equally thick skulls, it was to vie for a peek at the map.

Hector Barbossa scowled as he appraised the grinning fools; truth be told he hadn't even had an opportunity to look at the map in detail since he had claimed it for himself from the collection of navigational charts the deceased Sao Feng had possessed. As he grappled with the idea, he figured it wouldn't really hurt to show the idiots the map; it wasn't likely that they'd attempt to take it from him, and they probably wouldn't remember any important aspects of it anyway.

Barbossa reached into his coat pocket and ran a gnarled hand over the map. The map to the Fountain of Youth was an unusual one indeed; it was constructed not of leather or parchment, -as most maps were- but bamboo slats that had been tied together with some manner of twine. Wanting to see the map himself, Barbossa decisively took it out of his pocket. With a leer, he held it up for the pair to look at, and let it roll open.

The skinny one made a curious noise, and the chubby one stared in surprise. There was a large, even circle missing out of the center of the map. Barbossa was certainly shocked; he had no idea how anyone could have gotten ahold of the map. Yet there it was, or wasn't, as the case happened to be; the most important portion of the map had disappeared from under his nose. His anger began to boil over, and in an instant he found himself bellowing the name of the dratted bilge rat that had so deviously stolen immortality away from him.

After taking a moment to gather his thoughts, Barbossa then calmly asked the crew to turn around and get moving as fast as they damn well could, as Jack Sparrow was sitting back in Tortuga with a shit-eating smile on his filthy face, and had the most valuable piece of his map, for Cris'sakes. The man then grew oddly silent, maintaining a white-knuckled grip on the ship's wheel. His little monkey, Jack, perched on his shoulder and comforted him somewhat, but Barbossa's eyes were still riveted on the horizon.

The young pirate leaned up against the ship's railing, watching the growing mass of green on the horizon with an inscrutable look. It had been nearly four months since she'd been able to return to Tortuga, but somehow, she wasn't relishing the idea of coming back to her adopted home. Of course, there would be the familiar sights and people, but they wouldn't be the same, not really. They'd bear the hardships that the plague known as the East India Trading Company had brought upon the unsavory portions of the Caribbean, just as she did. Friendly faces would have new scars and fewer kind looks, local buildings wouldn't be as well kept by their owners. She couldn't help it; she sighed.

"We should be there by midday." The heavily accented voice of a man cut through the lapping of the waves and the quiet chatting of the crew members on deck. The pirate flinched, and the man behind her chuckled at how quickly her hand went to her back. She knew he was aware how adept she was with a knife, and how it was habit for her to reach for the blade she kept tucked in her waistband.

"Capitán," She rasped, her voice not all feminine; the sound was gravelly, like the growl of a dog. "I'm sorry, it's,"

"Si, si, habit. I know it well enough." The man said, amused. He moved next to the uneasy pirate and also rested his arms on the railing. He wasn't especially tall, and was a bit on the portly side, with long dark hair and a goatee, but Santiago Jesús Diaz, captain of the Wind Dancer, was not a man to be reckoned with. "Home, no?" He asked, pointing to Tortuga.

"Aye, but," The buccaneer seemed to want to say something, but faltered, blue eyes looking lost. "I don't know how I feel about that. Being home, you know." She suspected her captain knew something of what had happened to her in the past four months, and that he understood, so she didn't need to explain much to him.

"It will be hard, at first, but I think things will be good for you." Diaz said calmly. She gave him the faintest hint of a smile. It was wrong to smile, she knew, and hell, it even hurt to smile after such a long time, especially with wind-chapped lips, but she did it anyway. "And, if home isn't good, then you have a place here on the Dancer. Always, Gabriel. Remember that." The man gave her a pat on the shoulder, and walked away. The pirate glanced over her shoulder, watching him head to visit with his crew. She took a deep breath of the briny air, and after filling her lungs, headed below deck. The tears she kept bottled up were threatening to spill over her overbright gaze. It wouldn't do for her to be seen crying by others. The captain was truly a kind man, but he was kind to the most undeserving of souls, the pirate mused, and took a moment to rake a sleeve across her moist eyes.

Jack couldn't remember the last time that he'd been so thoroughly wet. The pounding water that poured unendingly from the black storm clouds above had soaked through his clothing and caused it to stick to his skin. It made navigating around the small sloop, which was fast filling with water, quite difficult. A concussion blast of thunder actually rattled Jack's head as he made a desperate grab for his bottle of rum; it nearly drifted over the side of the boat.

Bad idea, Jack berated himself, trying to catch his balance, bottle of rum clutched firmly in hand. He'd caused the boat to rock, and coupled with the rough waves, impeded his progress. To make things even worse, thunder boomed again, seemingly shaking the entire ship. Jack was quick to grab for the mast of the ship to steady himself. Things were getting ridiculously out of hand. He took a steadying breath, tucked his bottle under his arm, and made to consult the compass. The boat pitched again, but Jack forced himself to ignore the awful weather. He had made the decision to sail into the storm by himself, and he was going to sail out of it. No storm was going to conquer him. He, Captain Jack Sparrow was going to make his way to the Fountain of Youth.

He reached for the wet ropes and adjusted his course slightly, slipping the compass back into his pocket with the map piece, and prayed it wasn't irrevocably ruined by all the water. Brushing his hair out of his face, he held the sail steady against the winds as the ship crested another large wave. Then, white hot lighting spidered across the sky; Jack looked up, and watched as the lightning seemed to be drawn to the mast of the sloop. Jack, as though he were in a dream, made to let go of the mast as the static electricity touched down. The wood shattered and exploded outward, driving splinters into Jack's chest, face, and shoulders. As the brutal force of nature was driven down the quickly deteriorating mast, Jack felt the ship begin to break apart under his very feet. The lightning must have generated some sparks as well, for the wet wood spluttered and hissed against the rain.

That was enough to drive the man to action; brushing the wood chips off him, he gave a swift kick to the seat of the boat and broke it free. He fumbled through the rising water and grabbed for his makeshift raft. With a deep breath, Jack stepped out of the boat and into the raging ocean. As his sloop was sent to a watery grave by the storm, a piece of debris hit Jack, clinging desperately to his raft. Cursing his luck, he blacked out.

Bugger.