A novel written in response to the legends of the Fountain of Youth and its Keeper, inspired by Greek and Roman mythology, armies of gladiators, and the price paid by those who seek out immortality for their own personal gain.

Will the self proclaimed "Soldier of Chaos" finally find her peace and start anew?

And will Jack Sparrow and Hector Barbossa let their greed for immortality lead them to blood thirsty betrayal?

Disclaimer: I own nothing but a vivid imagination.

Thank you Nytd for your diligent beta reading!


Prologue – Warrior

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Roman Republic, Forum Boarium - 26 B.C.,

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She sat feebly in the crook of her stone cell, waiting and hoping that the doors to her freedom would one day open and accept her even with every one of her sins. She tucked her knees tightly against her flattened chest, running her fingers through the stubble upon her head, her hair sliced to its roots making her appear more masculine, masking her true identity. Her feet lay bare to the harsh elements and eyes tainted with blood.

She had taken more lives that day for the entertainment of thousands of spectators, who laughed at the idea of inflicting death upon their fellow man.

Each day, they were led into the arena with the intent to slaughter one another as spectators observed the very face of death while they prepared to overcome it. In a metaphorical sense as well, she had been socially dead for years either way. Each night, she saw countless faces disappear, knowing that she had murdered them for the sake of her existence, waiting for the day her own life would finally come to an end.

She had killed two hippopotami in her lifetime, one elephant and three beautifully striped tigers.

She had killed fifty-two men and twelve boys by gladius and fascina in twelve years of slavery and confinement. She watched them suffer as their last breaths escaped their collapsing lungs, reaching out to her for aid. They were all slaves, cut from the same cloth, some birthed by the same mother, only to be tossed out in the lions like yesterday's rubbish.

She rested her head on the stone's cold surface, seeking comfort and forgiveness for her broken soul as she closed her eyes, leaving herself at the mercy of sleep.

She found herself confronted by a light - a light which gave itself generously, filling the entirety of her cell in the darkness of night, yet It did not seek anything in return for it's generosity. Not bothering to inquire whether she was friend or foe, rather it gave itself and was not thereby diminished by her being.

"Warrior," a voice called out to her from within the light.

She turned her face from the wall; her eyes shot open, wide in terror.

"My child, you have been chosen," the voice spoke once more.

"C-Chosen?" she stammered, pushing herself up to her feet.

"Cleopatra Selene - my child, you must take my hand."

"Do not call me that!" she growled, spitting at the ground and in turn, the essence of her prior existence. "Do you not see that I am not whom you speak of?"

Her hands were stained with the crusts of aged blood. Her clothes were sullied with the ashes of her opponents, burned each day just before nightfall. If the bodies were not fit to burn, she would dig their graves and bury them herself. Solidifying the notion that at one point in time, she was their friend and in the end, she became their foe and executioner.

Her sword was encrusted with dead skin and sliced pieces of muscle and fleshy membrane. She embodied nothing that pertained to her mother or father nor the existence they wished for her to have.

"Are you not Cleopatra Selene, child of Marc Antony?"

She looking down to the floor, smiling wickedly. "I was. If he were alive to see me today, he would deny me as his own flesh and blood, as he rightfully should."

"Then, will you not take my hand and escape this place that has branded you as an animal?"

"Animal?" she humored. "The brutality of mankind to an animal is frivolous; apparently we cannot tell the difference."

"It is only a difference in victim," the voice affirmed.

"No," she stated, turning away from the light. "The difference is that I'm the victim. Royal blood courses through my veins, yet here I stand - a prisoner in the kingdom that rightfully belongs to me."

"Turn your face from me and the shadows shall follow swiftly behind," warned the voice.

"Then let them come!" she yelled. "I've shed the blood of six men today! If that does not merit the shadow of death itself to bestow itself upon me then I don't know else will!"

"Take my hand, child," the voice spoke after a moment, recognizing her lack of faith.

She stopped, resolute in her stance as she peered over her shoulder. "What is it that you want from me?"

"Your servitude," the voice responded promptly. "If you take my hand, you will be free. I will set you free for all eternity."

Chapter 1 – The Port of Nassau

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The ocean was soft with currents, maybe waves at times. As time passed ever so slowly, he began to long for consistency rather than tumultuous highs and lows. The sea called out to him in his dreams, whispering for the wind to fill his sails and to test his seams. He was calm in the water and yet, part of him longed to linger by the shore, like a ship safe within its harbor. Jack Sparrow had, in fact, been floating along calm Caribbean Seas for several days, twisting and contorting his body to conform to the dinghy's limited space, causing him to tire easily and become sore from the uncomfortable wooden cell. The pains that formed in his joints were numbing, almost as numbing as his present mindset as he watched the Black Pearl sailed proudly through his mind at full canvas.

In his wildest of dreams, he followed behind it as quickly as he could, arms outstretched, but she was relentlessly pursuing a course that that he had not mapped; she was truly unobtainable. He thought of how desperately he wished to reach out to her, touching the glistening pegs of her majestic helm once more. He thought of how content he could possibly make her, comforting her with the fact that she finally returned to capable hands of her proper captain.

Diminutive droplets of sweat glistened down his temples onto his exposed, sun-kissed chest. The warm mid-day sun danced across the plains of his face, reflecting off of his white linen shirt. He wiped away his sweat with his sleeve, licking stray droplets from his lips with a skillful tongue.

Three days he had spent within the dinghy's confinement, floating slowly into oblivion within food or water. Barbossa had left him with nothing but a name and a godforsaken vessel to his doom.

Only one hope remained – a small glass bottle containing the remnants of sweet Tortugain rum from his favorite tavern, The Faithful Bride sat enticingly by his side, awaiting his supple lips and slick tongue to take it once more.

He took a hearty swig, unable to ration his thirst any longer, remembering the phrase he had uttered so confidently just days ago.

"Drink up me hearties. Ho yo," he rasped as the spicy, amber liquid hit his tongue, making his throat tingle. He licked his lips, savoring each drop of the sweet nectar as if it were his last.

The numbing effects of rum always helped Jack feel somewhat at ease. He even went so far as to say that it was something of a tender nature, comforting his soul while blinding his scenes. In reality, the effects were superfluous, for lessening the pain of losing his one true love, the Black Pearl, was not an ache only rum could mend. His Pearl was not only a ship to the good captain, for he did not view her in the same light as any ordinary sailor. In his eyes, she was the only woman who had done his heart no harm; she was his escape from the changing world on land.

He stood for a moment, regaining his balance to secure the dinghy's foot to the boom, making sure the mainsheet was released so that the sail wouldn't fill as he began to raise the sail. He raised the mainsail, while taking the last sip of rum, finally throwing the bottle out to sea in frustration. He raised his brown, weathered tricorn hat, wiping away thin rivers of sweat from his brow with his sleeves once more.

He placed the hat back upon his head, looking out to where he had thrown the bottle out to the sea, watching it float away for a moment into a distant spit of land.

"Land, ho!" he hollered, stretching his arms out before him to what seemed to be the island of Nassau, desperately hoping that it was not a figment of fatigue or utter delirium.

Pulling out his finely crafted spyglass, he extended it to peer over at the island's majestic and vivacious port, deciding turn the braces of the yard a quarter turn, adjusting the sails to take advantage of the current favorable wind.

He recalled a time when the island of Nassau was once a bustling pirate port catering to all walks of life. This held true until several years prior when the Royal Navy was sent to New Providence Island to drive out the all that was piracy. The Navy gave generous offers to any pirate willing to cooperate, which included a complete pardon to any pirate who would turn themselves in and renounce their crimes. Jack could not think of life as privateer of England becoming equal to a life of freedom upon the sea. Many pirates turned themselves in for the sake of not being hung and those scabrous dogs who declined were bombarded by troops who were sent back to deal with the mess.

One thing that Jack had that gave him the edge over Barbossa was, very simply put – his cunning. Jack had taken the sacred maps that lead the whelp and his bonny lass to locker in order to save him. He had given up his dream of immortality to save the whelp's life but, he swore to not sacrifice the opportunity again. He had a feeling that Barbossa would not waste any time in taking the Pearl back into his possession, yet he left his ship in the command of the slightly inebriated Gibbs. Good man, but a damn sleepy drunk.

He drifted nearby the busy port, examining the hustle and bustle of the merchants and naval officers with a meticulous eye. Heavily armed troops were on patrol, marching up and down the main dock in squadrons; pearl-white guns were eagerly perched upon their shoulders, ready for the slightest disturbance in regular activity. A brigade of law abiding merchants went about their business, carrying food and supplies back and forth between the market and their vessels.

Jack had realized long ago that he no longer had allies on this godforsaken rock. Tortuga was the only safe pirate port in these changing times. The sea was slowly losing its freedom, forcing even the most cunning of men to go into hiding, spending longer periods of time out at sea.

It was nightfall when Jack rowed his dinghy around to shore on the other side of the docks, away from scrupulous eyes. He figured that he should keep a low profile because of his past dealings with this particular port.

"There must be some pirates left on this bloody rock," Jack reassured himself as he dodged several guards standing the dog watch.

He swiftly made his way through the crowd of busy merchants, doing as best he could to blend in. He hurried into the first tavern he laid eyes on, opening the door to discover a large room glowing from dimly lit candlelight. For a respectable town, this particular tavern was in no way respectable. He wrinkled his nose as he passed by certain areas that smelled of fresh vomit along with mixtures of foul body odor, shifting his eyes to various tables surrounding a wooden platform, where a small band played loud and chaotic music composed of fiddles, drums and belligerent singing.

The noise slithered deep within his ears, clouding the jolts of haphazard gunshots and seductive whispers of prostitutes as he made his way through the crowded tavern. He weaved his way through barmaids and drunken sailors. He watched as several women of a promiscuous nature attempted to entertain the tavern's many inhabitants.

He was in no mood for pleasurable company this evening; his mind was elsewhere, hoping to find a place to rest his weary bones for the evening.

The tavern was filled with all sorts of sailors and merchants from around the Caribbean, and actually reminded him of his favorite tavern on his beloved Tortuga. He let out a small sigh as he headed toward his destination.

He was approached by a young barmaid, adorned long blond locks and a sheer lace corset. "Open a tab, sir?"

"Aye, lass," he stated, adjusting his coat. "Although, I cannot promise that proper payment will be received. But, I'm sure with an establishment such as this, proper repayment can be agreed upon in other forms," he cooed.

She giggled. "What can I do ya for?"

"You can do me for a lot of things," he said, clearing his throat. "Unfortunately, for this evening, I'm afraid I'll have to settle for your finest rum. Actually, make that a double, in a very large cup, if you will," he specified, leaning his arms against the counter.

"I suggest that you'll not be enhancing it with any water or I'll have to take you up on that previous offer," he declared casually, revealing a dashing smiling.

The young wench nodded, sauntering over to the several large barrels of rum behind the bar to fill his order. She wondered how this odd, yet handsome man knew the tricks their tavern played with its customers.

She paid him no mind, seeing that she had other orders to fill and tabs to be collected.

She handed Jack his drink. "Thank you, darling," Jack mustered, before he drowned himself in the finest rum he had ever tasted.

"You're not from 'round here are you?" she inquired, turning to him once more as she began to clean the sullied counter top with a rag from her pocket. She curiously watched him as he emptied the contents of his mug.

He smiled. "I'm just drifting by, so to speak," he answered truthfully, loosing himself once more in the lack of sensation.