A/N: I recently took another glance at this story and realized how poorly written it was. So I've decided to polish it up one piece at a time. I don't know if anyone is still reading it, but for my sanity, I am going to retool it chapter by chapter. Maybe I will be struck with new inspiration and finish it.
Disclaimer: I own neither Pirates of the Caribbean nor any of it's characters, names or locations. This is a simple exercise in creativity that I will not try to sell or profit from. All credit goes to Disney.
It was one of those days that the Caribbean was so notorious for. A warm breeze blew in from the north, bringing with it lazy swells of the ocean. Crystal blue salt water churned and frothed white, crashing unhurriedly into mussel-coated wooden docks. Overhead the sun shone brightly, silhouetting flocks of noisy gulls. The sounds of the birds were rivaled only by the sounds of townspeople, sailors, fisherman and the occasional aristocrat bartering, trading and selling. Purses jingled, coins changed hands and arguments ensued. The crowds of the marketplace thinned out as one moved from the middle of the town to the ports. The symphony of noise took a different theme here; men grunted and groaned under their grueling work. A joke would trill in from time to time, lessening the burdens of scorching summer sun and heavy cargo. Here, the clearly drawn social lines of the market blurred and faded. Old, young, black, white and mulatto worked side by side, united by the task of putting food in hungry bellies.
There was a certain amount of freedom about working the docks. A man dictated his own hours, free from the oppression of the overseer or landlord. However, the trivial independence could only get a person so far. Dictating hours did not mean one could dictate wages. Young boys awoke in the milky recesses of the early morning, grabbed their lunch pails (if one was lucky enough to afford lunch) and made their way to musty and damp cargo holds in the hopes of earning a penny or two to take home to their mothers. Old men's necks turned red as lobsters under the unforgiving heat of the blistering sun, their backs bent permanently like a bow from the load of many a barrel. Those still strapping and strong contented themselves with dreams of getting elsewhere, of marrying rich or becoming a sailor, or perhaps donning the proud scarlet jacket of her Highnesses' finest.
Hayden was no different. He had been labeled a dreamer early on in his life: the type of child who fancied himself something special, more often caught with a book or daydreaming than attending to proper activities. Time had changed him somewhat, molding the twig of a boy into a man. Golden locks had faded with age until they were a light brown, streaked copper by the salt water and warm air. Thin limbs had filled out with years of labor, ending in broad hands and feet. Other's remarked that his race was a mystery; his skin refused to burn and peel like so many of his comrades, but did not hold the same rich brown hue of others. Had he been of a higher birth the ladies may have found him quite the catch. As it were, he was a lowly dock worker, his looks more often than not obscured by a large straw hat and worn and patched cotton shirts and breeches.
He moved with the same routine efficiency of his coworkers, stacking crates in orderly piles, interjecting with the occasional witty comment and eating the same meal of fish and chips as all of the others. But sometimes, after a long day of work for measly pay, he would look across the horizon. Hazel eyes would stare off into the distance expectantly, as though he knew something was coming but horribly late. His shoulders would fall ever so slightly, accompanied by just a whisper of a sigh. Then a friend would stir the young man from his musings and he would hurry off home with the rest for a few hours sleep before the cycle began again.
Due to a discrepancy with the amount of pay the workers received on this particular Caribbean day, Hayden neglected to study the horizon. If he had looked, those perceptive eyes may have detected, far in the distance, the proud banner of a dark ship, a ship with black sails.
****
Laura sat nestled among the wind-whipped black cloth of the sails. Her high perch allowed her the comfort of a few stolen moments of privacy. It wasn't that she was dissatisfied with life, but she had felt a sort of restlessness lately. She attributed it to homesickness, though her home had always been with her elder sister, Ana Maria. Ever fateful, Laura had been trailing behind Ana since childhood. Her sister had never yet lead her astray, resulting in a bond of trust that transcended the normal. So it was with relatively little protest that she followed her to their current dwelling, the Black Pearl.
Laura was very conscious of the fact that a ship was no place for a young woman. A pirate ship should have been out of the question. Yet here she was. She and her sister had traded the fine linens and petticoats women their age donned in exchange for men's britches and shirts. Uncomfortable heeled shoes were impractical, so they wore boots, their dark hair whipping out behind them on the wind, free of bobby pins and bonnets, allowing already bron faces to grow darker in the heat of the sun. Ladies would have been scandalized by the state of her cuticles. She would have certaninly been labeled a tart if her sleeping quarters became public knowledge. She and her sister were the only women aboard their vessel and therefore shared space, time and work with an all male crew.
Ana had quickly earned the respect of their comrades-- a task Laura was quick to copy-- advancing herself to the position of first mate under Captain Jack Sparrow. Laura smirked with the thought of him. She cherished a secret suspicion that the captain was the reason she and her sister were on the ship in the first place. Sparrow, though possibly a tad bit daft, was quickly gaining infamy. Laura had learned not to judge him by the swagger of his gait or his dreadlocked, kohl-smudged, trinket clad appearance. He was sharp and calm in the most dire of situations, pillaging and plundering often without firing a single shot or even removing his sword from its sheath. His intelligence was a trait Laura knew Ana admired. She had watched her sister sneak covert looks at their captain when she was certain no one was looking. She knew those looks well. Though Ana had only fallen for a handful of men in their lifetime, she had always fallen hard.
"Laura!" Ana's sharp cry startled Laura from her reverie. She inwardly cursed. Family ties did little for her when it came to how Ana conducted her duties as first mate. There would be hell to pay for her little break. She swung down onto the ratlines on nimble feet, landing with a booted thump in front of her elder sister.
"Aye, aye!" Laura fell to attention.
"The captain wishes to dock tonight. We should be at the port soon. Get down here and help," Ana's hair, a few shades darker than Laura's, whipped across her face. Her full lips were pursed into a severe line, her dark eyes squinting into the sunset. Her sister didn't look happy. Laura guessed she didn't agree with the risk Jack was taking. Nevertheless, she assured her sister she would help.
The Black Pearl slowly rode the currents into the port, intending to dock for a few hours before taking off once more for the open sea.