A/N: My response to the POTC100 prompt: North. I really had a great time writing this -- considering that it's my favorite thing to write about.
Check out my multi-chapter fiction: Place of Torment, to read the rest of my Jack in the Locker series!
Enjoy! Reviews are always appreciated.
Pairing: Jack, Jack's Conscience, Multiple Jacks
Word Count: 646
Prompt: North
Lack of Direction
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"Remove the gaskets, let go of the clew lines and the buntlines, Mr. Sparrow!" Jack shouted as he walked assertively amongst a brigade of long haired, tattooed rogues.
"Captain Sparrow, do we have our heading?" Mr. Sparrow inquired, walking swiftly behind his captain.
"Aye, son. West," Jack replied with haste, making his way up to the Black Pearl's quarterdeck.
"Are you certain, Captain? You didn't even look at your compass," replied his timid replica.
"If you hadn't noticed, Mr. Sparrow, we are without said compass. But, with my innate sense of direction, we'll be able to get ourselves out of this mess," Jack assured, licking his index finger sloppily between his lips, holding it out before him to measure the wind.
"What the hell am I doing? There's no bloody wind," he thought, placing his hand back on his waist.
"Hoist the yard, you scabrous dogs!" Jack ordered, adjusting his frock coat.
"Might I inquire as to why we are heading west, sir?"
"Are you questioning my judgment, Mr. Sparrow?" Jack questioned, turning to glare at the deckhand, feeling a spark of anger ignite within him.
"No, not at all, sir," Mr. Sparrow assured, waving his arms out to his captain. "All I meant was, without a compass and all – how would you know which direction, is indeed, the right one?"
Jack stood for a moment, licking his teeth gingerly. "Do you have any suggestions, lad? If not, then I have a suggestion for you --"
"Aye, sir?" Mr. Sparrow raised his brow, awaiting his orders.
"Shoo," Jack stated, waving Mr. Sparrow off to the side so he could take his place at the helm.
"Well, er … what about north?"
"What about it?" Jack inquired, wrinkling his nose as he placed his hands upon the wheel's smooth pegs, monitoring the vigorous activity on deck while drumming the edges of his fingers lightly.
"Well, why not place it in the hat for consideration?"
"You know, my compass never really pointed north," Jack observed, in his defense. "Don't you have something else to do?"
"Well, perhaps, it would have – if you had it, of course – now that you're here. All in all, it seems like a viable heading to me, if you were asking me, of course," he concluded. "Don't want to look like we're shooting cardinal directions out of our arse, do we?"
Jack pondered for a moment, letting his eyes wander beyond the Pearl, peering out over the white abyss before him, unable to fathom that he no longer felt the creek of the Pearl beneath him, shifting from tide to tide with utter grace and ease.
She was no longer living and neither was he. He was a man missing his purpose – a man detached by his inability to feel the license to do as he pleased, the freedom of nature and the dancing of wind that traveled elegantly upon the sea, seeping through his tangled locks.
He longed for the sprinkles of sea mist upon his cheeks – he longed for the turbulence of life in a sea of bland disdain.
"The young lad makes a good point, mate."
"Aye, but it's really all a matter of perspective, if you ask me."
"Perhaps, a matter of semantics."
"Or, perhaps, it is a matter of not having a bloody compass?" Jack snapped; placing his hands on his hat as he slightly shook his head to relieve himself of the insatiable racket.
"Mr. Sparrow, brace the fore --" he paused, turning full circle, coming to the realization that his once bustling ship was now sparse of any human activity but his own.
"Fine, I'll do it meself. You're all bloody useless."
