The Compass

When Jack tries to slip away from the Black Pearl during the Kraken attack, which way is the compass REALLY pointing?... And what implications might that answer have? Slight Sparrabeth implied. Two short scenes – this is a one-shot piece.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own PoTC, any of its characters, or the Black Pearl. It's just such a pretty boat – er, ship, sorry! – so I thought I'd take it out for a spin. My literary dabblings, set forth here, exist for the twin purposes of entertainment and self-improvement only. Constructive criticism is welcome. This is my first PoTC piece (I am a lot more familiar with the characters in the Star Trek universe, so please correct me if need be), and I am just trying to "get inside the heads" of the characters, so here goes nothing... I am sure this scene has been explored many times before, but this is what I thought of it when I watched the movie…

The oars dipped below the surface of the water; Jack watched as the sea swirled and churned in their wake. With a pace that was just a hair less than frantic, but more than determined, he continued to propel the little boat onward. A backward glance confirmed his heading; off in the distance, the hazy silhouette of the shoreline beckoned to him. Land. Safety.

Truth be told, he'd never equated land with safety before. Land was where pirates were branded, imprisoned, hanged. It was the last place he had ever thought he would want to be. Aside from rum (which could easily be taken on board a ship) and women (which had, as of late, been little more than harbingers of peril), land had precious little to offer to Jack Sparrow.

Of course, Jones' tentacled beastie had changed all that.

Jack glanced up and ceased rowing; there, receding into the distance, was the Pearl – his Pearl. He watched as the massive limbs of the kraken wound their way in and out of every opening the hull, tightening its deadly grip. If there had ever been such a creature as the Medusa, he mused, the myth had likely sprung from accounts of the kraken's appearance.

Idly, he wondered if anyone on board the Pearl had noticed his absence yet. Most likely not. They had decidedly more pressing concerns at the moment. No doubt, the whelp was scurrying about, trying frantically to come up with a plan. As if the kraken could be defeated. As if there were still some faint hope of victory. Ah, dear William. Ever the hopeful eunuch, aren't ye?

The familiar weight of the compass attached to his belt drew his attention.

Ah, the compass. He considered having a look at it.

It would only serve to reinforce his convictions, after all. He was doing the right thing, and was headed in the direction of that which he desired most in the world – what he desired most being to save his own hide, of course. Of that he was certain.

Almost certain, anyway. Once he made it to the beach, a swig of rum from the bottle at his feet would remove any lingering doubt. Rum had a way of doing that.

Besides which, he mused, the kraken was drawn to the black spot. And here he was, rowing away from the Pearl. Ergo, it was only a matter of time before it realized that its prey was not on board – and, once it did, it would leave the Pearl and its terrified crew alone, and come in search of its intended target. By that time, Jack hoped, he would be safely ashore. It was a brilliant plan, really. He got to live, everyone on the Pearl got to live, and Davy Jones would be thwarted once more… so, no harm done, really. Unless one counted the thwarting, which Jack didn't. Truth be told, he regarded it with no small amount of self-satisfied smugness. The slimy git had it coming.

So. The compass, then. With one swift motion, he brought to compass to eye level and flipped open the lid. Captain Jack Sparrow knows what he wants, all right.

For the first time in many months, the needle swung around only once, and came to rest with little fanfare. It did not wobble or waver, but instead directed Jack's gaze straight ahead. The compass was resolute upon that point; what Jack wanted most was the Pearl.

Or something on board the Pearl.

Or someone on board the Pearl.

His dark eyes fixed themselves upon the compass. An expression of growing disbelief flickered across his features. Bugger. The bloody needle is right. Jack reversed course and began rowing back toward the Pearl, back to inescapable danger, back to her.

You were right, Lizzie. I do want to know what it tastes like.

Jack's hands caressed the worn timbers of the Pearl. He needed this moment, at least – this one, stolen moment alone, while the crew disembarked – to say goodbye to his ship.

Except he was not alone.

"Thank you, Jack." Elizabeth spoke softly; to the rest of the crew, her words were lost to the crash of the waves and the creaks and groans of the Pearl's battle-damaged, splintered deck. She took a tentative step towards him, not sure what to expect – from Jack or herself.

Jack turned from his contemplation of the Pearl to face her. "We're not free yet, love." She already knew that, of course, but it still pained him to remind her.

An innocent, almost bashful smile flitted across her face for just a moment. It did not escape Jack's notice. "You came back," she said. He could not tell whether she was surprised by that fact, or vindicated by it.

The wind blew a few strands of damp, matted hair into her eyes. She did nothing to smooth them into place. "I always knew you were a good man."

Elizabeth stepped towards Jack and closed her eyes; her lips brushed against his, softly at first, then more insistently. He gave into it, kissed her back with equal passion, let himself be guided backwards with slow steps towards the mast. He breathed in the sweet scent of her, reveled in the taste of her lips on his, refused to spend one moment pondering why it was happening and thought only Lizzielizzieluvdon'tstop -- .

The ominous click of a pair of shackles being fastened made the intent behind her actions all too clear. Elizabeth broke their kiss. Jack felt the warmth of her touch leave him as her hands trailed down his coatsleeves, her fingers lingering just a second more than was necessary along the top of his hand before she stepped back. The set of her jaw reflected a mix of emotions – viciousness, resolve, and a lingering hint of lust. Her eyes blazed with a fury he did not know she possessed.

"It's after you, not the ship," she explained. As if he didn't already know. As if maybe, if she said it aloud, she could make all of this seem reasonable, sensible somehow. "It's not us," she continued.

He said nothing. There was nothing he could say that would persuade her to free him, and he knew it. Her choice was born of selfishness – and, in all the world, there was no more powerful motive than that.

The worst part was, he couldn't blame her.

"This is the only way, don't you see?" Elizabeth almost closed her eyes, almost leaned in with parted lips for another kiss, but stopped herself abruptly. Some shred of propriety, some hint of her old life as a governor's daughter, made her keep her distance.

Jack just studied her, his kohl-smeared lids still half-lowered, and grinned. He had underestimated her. Bloody hell, he was proud of her. A part of him was actually proud of her for having deceived him so successfully.

Again, she moved closer to him. "I'm not sorry." Her voice faltered, betraying her. She searched his face, looking for… what? Comfort? Justification? Some form of absolution?

His gaze met hers steadily, and he whispered the only word that even remotely applied to her at that moment: "Pirate." He wanted to tell her more than that. Much more. But there was no time, and words – something Jack normally had an overabundance of – were scarce at the moment, not to mention woefully insufficient.

For just a moment, Elizabeth tilted her head back and moved almost imperceptibly closer, as if she were about to steal one last kiss. Then, with a lightning-quick motion, she pivoted on one heel, walked stiffly to the edge of the ship, and climbed down into the waiting longboat.

She did not look back.