-1Pairing: Jack Sparrow/Original Character
Locations: Port Royal/Tortuga, pre-"Curse of the Black Pearl"
Chapter One: Hyphenated Beauty
Death waited at the other side of Jack's slimy, humid Port Royal prison cell. It was midnight, or thereabouts, in the seaside city, and all was still but for the lapping of salt water at shore and the distant snores of greasy inmates down the corridor, which was lined with candle lamps. Such implements of vision did little to penetrate the thick, gloomy darkness which saturated the hall, and sometimes Jack imagined that this devilish pitch watched him as he slept; was Death's mistress herself, waiting to seduce him under night's cover.
"Cheeky harlot," whispered Jack as he noticed a candle flicker and founder. He crawled slowly on his hands and knees toward the rusty, salt-encrused bars of his cage. Grasping the cold metal, he poked his nose out into the smoke-thickened air and cocked an eyebrow. "Ah, the pungeant stink of humility..."
To his left, Jack heard the slither of a boot on sandy cobblestone and a hushed breath; he could almost feel a heart pulsing in his direction. "Satan?" he ventured. Jack cringed inquisitively, his upper lip twitching as the question hung before him, a dim echo.
"Mr. Sparrow," said a soft voice.
Jack struggled internally for a moment, flabbergasted that the spectre had spoken his surname. "I may be if you will reveal your title and duty here, o rum spirit."
"Little may I say other than that I visit you with a blood-binding contract, a way out of your miserable dung heap..."
"If that be the case, then say as little as you wish, mate."
"Done." The being turned a slim key from its ruffled sleeve; Jack heard the merciful clicking of a lock being released, and the creak of aged hinges. "Now we leave, ever quietly."
Jack slipped on tip-toe from his doomy enclosure. A wave of excitement and relief spread from his heart to his appendages. After a moment, cool fingers were wrapped about his throat, one by one. Then came a whisper, heavy and warm: "You owe a blood debt now, Mr. Sparrow. You will either set your humours coursing by joining us, or you will see them spilt by your betrayal. Either way, the choice is yours."
With a look of alarm, Jack said, "Life, I think, is a more savory preference to slow decay, yes." Thusly his wrists were bound by a silken cord, and he was led up the prison steps and out into the twilight, where the winds tossed his greasy dreadlocks and tousled his moustache. "Freedom at last," he said; his sarcasm was not lost on his captor. As the creature turned toward him, Jack saw the moonglow fall hauntingly upon the exotic visage of a teen-aged boy.
"Freedom in chains, at least." The boy's full, pouty lips curved into a morbid smile, and his dark-lashed eyes sparkled maniacally; his beauty held Jack under an asphyxiating spell, and they moved toward the waterfront making lightest sound.
"Where is it, exactly, that we are going?" slurred Jack, followed by an awkwardly whispered sentiment.
"Shipbound," said the boy.
"Ah, me ol' bread'n'butter; back to plow the ol' concubine with my rudder; magnificent, bilious sea beasts and all, mate."
"Your captain will be glad to hear it Sparrow."
"My what?"
"Your captain, Sparrow; your commodore, commander in chief."
Jack's steps faltered a little, and he began to stutter animatedly. "Oh, no, crumpet. Slit me throat now and keep the blood. All of it. Sip it if you like, great additive to any mixed beverage---rum, p'raps. A bottle before I hit the Locker couldn't hurt..."
The boy reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a dagger; it glinted as the stars may.
"Wait, wait---no, honestly! Don't kill me. Leave me blood to its devices." Jack performed a dance of cringe and grimace, arms criss-crossing wildly to concede his mistake. "Don't drink it, either; it's probably sour."
The dagger was hidden away again. "Mind your tongue, or we shall cut it quite out."
"Yes, yes, I shall mind it; at times I find it quite useful." The pirate held the muscle betwixt thumb and forefinger, caressing it lightly, his eyes unfocusing with each attempt to appreciate its existence.
"Move along, foppish cad."
The pair approached a ship's gangway and began the ascension to deck. "The Dauphine. What sort of name is that?" Jack was mystified; his fingers were seen attempting to pluck the answer from the night air.
"It's French, a new tricksy strategy of the Royal Fleet."
"Why should anyone want to be disguised as a raisin?"
As they strode across the deckboards, Jack noticed a fat beam of fiery gold light streaming forth from the Captain's Quarters. The boy led him there and, after a series of coded knocks, they were bidden inside.
"Ah, Mr. John Underwood-Canthel. From behind a great, ornate oaken desk eked a soft yet biting voice, its overtone of privilege and underlying arrogance difficult to dismiss. "You have brought me the prisoner, I see."