A/N: So this is a little story that came to me a while ago, and I kept thinking about it until I just had to put it on paper. I love Davy Jones and I really love Salazar and I really thought that the two of them might be very good friends, so I put this together and I hope you'll like it. I might have got a bit OOC on one or two occasions, but I hope you will excuse that. :)
Darkness Before The Storm
A storm was raging above the waves. It was one of those nights when even the Dutchman had trouble keeping itself upright in the furious waters, and the crewmen upon it were having their hands… and claws, and tentacles, or whatever they had trying to keep the ship from toppling over or being smashed against any rock that came into it's way. The captain himself stood at the deck, manning the wheel and holding onto it with all his might as the ship rocked from one side to the other, swinging on the violent waves that were constantly thrashing upon its ancient hull, the wind howling like some mythical beast and the rain pounding down onto the sailors' heads. It was sure that were this not in fact the Flying Dutchman, and were it not the legendary captain Davy Jones himself who stood at the helm, the ship would have been lost to the ocean already. But Davy Jones was the lord of the sea, and he would not be defeated by this playful display of wrath it threw at him at its whim.
After several long and arduous hours, the sea around them finally calmed down and the men upon it were allowed a sigh of relief, but now the Dutchman has found itself in unfamiliar waters it never sailed before. The ship moved forward slowly, as if the old vessel itself was wary of its surroundings. It was still daylight, yet around them a strange darkness began to set, and with it came the fog. Its first milky tendrils reaching towards the ship carefully before slowly engulfing it in its grasp, making the men on board shake with cold and an unnatural fear. Only the captain remained calm, watching the sea before them with caution.
Suddenly, the white curtain began to part slightly and the captain's eyes narrowed in confusion at the sight that slowly revealed itself to them. Out of the fog, several hundred yards before them, came a strange rocky structure. Those sharp, jagged cliffs formed an entrance to a cave, the dark clouds hanging and swirling around it, blotting out the sun from the area completely. The wide, triangular arch loomed before them like the jaws of some giant sea creature prepared to snap behind them the moment they passed through it, and many of the men down below him began to whisper in terror when they saw what was in front of them. Then he caught a name and he tensed as he looked at the line of rocks once more. The Devil's Triangle. He remembered the tales he used to hear when he was a boy and many times after, and yet he himself had never actually seen the place. He had no doubt though that this was indeed the area that sailors would only talk about in a low voice, fearful of the forces they might unleash otherwise.
He supposed he couldn't blame them now that he stared at it with his own eyes, and yet the captain of the Flying Dutchman was not afraid, he was curious. Davy Jones was never a coward, and there was nothing on the sea that could frighten him. And so, with a steady hand, he turned the ship's course straight towards the craggy entrance. His men were not happy about this, but all took was a one death glare sent their way to make them obey his orders and so they faithfully did so, hoping that their captain knew what he was doing. As they passed through the arch however, and the world around them turned dark, even the bravest of them felt a chill go down their spine. All of them, some more than others, could feel the evil in this place, but now it was too late as the ship entered the murky, ink black waters and continued forwards slowly, carefully avoiding the knife-like rocks sticking out of the water, ready to tear through the ship like through butter if they were not careful enough.
But the captain was a skilled sailor, and his hand, holding on to the wheel with his long, tentacled finger navigated the ship through the dark with a mastery he acquired during the centuries of his life. It was pretty apparent that many of the ships coming here were not so lucky as to have a captain who could successfully lead them out. As his eyes slowly became accustomed to the darkness he could make out the silhouettes of ships smashed against the rocks or even nothing but a mere wreckages still resembling parts of ships they once formed still holding on to the surface of the water before they will eventually fall to the depths below. But as he looked, there was one ship among those that stood out, for it must have been a really beautiful one when it was still functional. A large vessel with three masts, one of which was now broken, and a figure of a woman holding a sword in the front, emerging from the mist now as the remnants of the ship sailed slowly towards them.
And then his eyes widened as he realised what exactly he was seeing. It was hard to see in the dark, but he could swore that he saw some movement down in the distance between the two ships. The wind stopped blowing completely and the Dutchman sailed to a stop, as her captain turned and stepped away from the helm, walking down to join his crew. Then, he saw dark shadows appearing on the ship, seemingly from nowhere, and, with their swords raised the shadows moved towards them, and immediately Davy Jones ordered his men to do the same while he watched the attackers carefully. They were men, at least once they were, but now their appearance was torn and grey, their bodies invisible where once there were limbs and flesh and skin, now serving as a reminder of a tragedy that once occurred to them. They were dressed in naval uniforms that identified them as soldiers, but those attires that could have been once pristine and white were now blackened and charred, and tattered as much as the men wearing it. Ghosts.
As they came closer, he could see a man walking in front of the ghostly crowd. He was a tall man, even though he was bending forward a bit as he walked, his shoulders hunched. Unlike most of his crew, his body was still clearly recognisable, missing only a part of the left side of his face and neck. His face was pale and cracked, his dark eyes staring forward with clear hatred and cold determination as his men followed his swift stride, which was steady and resolute even with a slight limp in his leg as he leaned on his sword. His uniform was that of a captain, with several medals hanging from it and clinking softly as he walked, though now they were almost invisible as they too were dark and corroded. His hair was flowing freely around his head, looking as if floating underwater constantly.
And then both crews suddenly stopped as they saw exactly who they were going to fight, both captains ordering them to a halt simultaneously as they approached, standing one terrifying face to another. Captain Davy Jones stared at the man in front of him. He had no idea who it was, but something about this specter reminded him strongly of his past, and the ten years he spend ferrying the countless souls of sailors who found their deaths upon the seas. But he knew those souls couldn't be helped even if he still honoured that task, they were cursed, bound to this world by the dark forces of the Triangle.
Captain Armando Salazar stared at the man in front of him, and, frankly, he could not believe his eyes. Of course he knew who it was or at least he had a strong suspicion, back in his days he heard many tales and legends spoken by sailors, but that was twenty years ago now and back then, he considered those stories as nothing more than that, stories. For him, the supernatural world was nothing but a load of nonsense that the weak and cowardly hid behind to cover their own incompetence. But now he was dead, and the supernatural world felt painfully real to him. The two captains kept regarding each other with cold fascination in silence, with nothing more but Salazar's wheezing breath to be heard, before Davy Jones finally decided to break the silence.
"It seems we have reached a stand-off, captain. You cannot kill me and my men, and we can't kill yours-uh." He stepped closer to the other sailor, showing no fear as he watched the black gooey something slowly trickling down the ghost's chin. "You seem to know my name, though I must wonder, who exactly are you?" Davy Jones asked and watched as the man standing opposite him straightened his back slightly and answered him with pride. "You may adress me as capitán Salazar." His strong, hollow voice rang through the darkness around them, but while some of his crew gasped in horrified surprise, the Dutchman's captain remained unimpressed. Though he understood that this was a name he obviously should have recognised, he truly didn't care. It was so long since he cut off any connection to this world that he really couldn't care less about how famous this man was or not. Though he was still very much curious about him.
"A Spaniard-uh?" asked Davy Jones, as he slowly took out his pipe and lit it, puffing out a bit of smoke. "I do not know who you are, captain Salazar." he said, speaking the name in his own thick Scottish accent. "But I am quite interested to hear your story." He nodded to his men, who slowly lowered their weapons but kept staring warily at the party of ghosts across from them, who stood still with their weapons ready, awaiting orders from their own captain. "Seeing as how we both have a lot of time on our hands, perhaps you'd like to tell me, how a man like you ends up in the Devil's Triangle."
"The answer to that is simple, capitán." Salazar began after a moment of hesitation. He didn't want to admit his own defeat to this proud sea captain who suddenly sprang out of half forgotten legends, but after so many years of being alone in this hell he so desired to tell his tale to someone who might understand his hatred, his pain, his thirst for revenge, his desire to set right what was wronged to him. And if all the rumours about Davy Jones were true, than he was exactly the man that would understand all that, though perhaps, for entirely different reasons. And so he signalled his crew to lower their weapons as well, and followed the other captain as he moved towards the back of the ship to give their conversation a bit of privacy. "A single name: Jack Sparrow."
Salazar could see the captain's head snap towards him at the mention of the pirate, but he didn't say anything, and so he continued, telling him everything, about the Spanish hero he was before all this, his conquest on the sea. He spoke of the Silent Mary, his wonderful, unbeatable ship and their victories over the pirate infection that stained the seas like a plaque, a plaque that could only be purged by death. There was fire in his eyes as he spoke of that battle, the one into which he sailed and emerged from as a king, smashing through the pirates who dared to stand against him, blowing their ships into pieces, scattering their torn bodies all over the ocean for the sharks to have their fill. He recalled as his men cheered, praising their captain's name as they basked in the victory they themselves had a part in… and then that passion in his eyes turned into hatred as he spoke of the man who ruined it all, who condemned him and those loyal to him to this fate, this infernal existence while he continued polluting the seas, his breed continuing to thrive on the account of their suffering and their pain.
Davy Jones watched the captain and listened, and though they had traveled it by different means, he knew that their path was the same. Both trapped in a void between life and death, both suffering in an existence they didn't ask for, thirsting for a revenge they couldn't get. He may have punished Calypso by helping the pirates to trap her, to degrade her on the same level as he was, robbing her of most of her power to humiliate her, but she was still alive, and even though he hasn't seen her in many decades she still haunted his every step. His blood boiled still at the very thought of her. And so he could sympathise with the Spanish captain, even to the point of wanting to help him, if only to give himself hope that by helping him succeed in his revenge, maybe one day he could get some recompense for his own anguish.
He put the pipe away and spoke. "Your tale is one I know too well, though mine would be told in a different way. And Jack Sparrow is a name I know well too." He saw the spark of anger, and before the Spaniard could ask his question, he continued. "Jack Sparrow owes me his soul-uh. And his debt is due now. I was hoping to have him on my ship, but it is in death where he will truly experience all the misery he brought to you, I can promise you that."
"How?"
"The Locker. Some people call me the Devil, well this is my Hell. It is a place where a soul would go through the greatest torture it can possibly endure. We can be allies, you and I. I can help you get your revenge, and Sparrow's soul would still be mine as it should be."
"You forget, capitán," Salazar snapped, pacing restlessly. "that I am trapped here, among these rocks, like a rat. Your promises of revenge mean nothing when I can't be there to witness it." He was, of course, right, but at that moment, Davy Jones smiled. Some people would find it scary to see him smile like that, but while there was certainly some wickedness in it, Salazar could see the comradeship in his eyes, and while he would normally find such sentiments foolish, he found that in this case he could appreciate it, for in the next moment Davy Jones took out his sword slowly. "This place may keep you as a prisoner, captain, but I am still the lord of the sea. And the sea will submit to my command-uh." He said, and then he aimed the sword at the nearest rock.
Nothing happened at first, but then, suddenly, a small, barely visible crack appeared on the surface of the stone. A small crack at first but it got bigger, and as they looked, more cracks appeared in the surrounding rocks, and soon, a deep rumble echoed around them as whole chunks of cliffs began to fall apart. The crew of the Silent Mary ran to the side of the ship to watch as the clouds above them slowly dispersed the more of those rocky walls fell into the water, and then, suddenly, the first rays of daylight shone from the now revealed Caribbean sky, and a look of sheer delight slowly spread across Salazar's pale face as he stepped into the light and let his cold skin bathe in its warmth, the other ghosts doing the same. They have almost forgotten what it felt like, and though they were still dead and cursed, they were all glad there was at least this small joy to take comfort in. That, and perhaps another one as well. After so many years of being trapped in the dark, they were now free, and nothing could stop them from continuing their work. He turned to captain Jones.
"So you say that if we kill him, he will go into this Locker of yours where he'll suffer like I did for eternity?" He asked, and Davy Jones nodded. "He will suffer the worst fate his own mind can conjure for him." He added, and they watched together as the last pieces of rocks vanished beneath the waves, and the Silent Mary now stood next to the Flying Dutchman, its torn sails being ruffled by a wind it didn't feel in decades. Salazar stood at the helm, gently stroking the wood of his beloved ship, for once a contented smile upon his face. "Bien." he said. "Let us find the Sparrow then so we can cut off his wings, mi amigo." And as the sun slowly began to set on the horizon, the two ghost ships sailed side by side towards it, eager to hunt themselves some pirates.