Chapter One:
Cura Posterior
a later concern

And still there comes this dark, dark hour --
Which is not borne of Care;
Into my heart it creeps before
I am aware.

from The Dark Hour, by William Henry Davies

"Jackie!" a voice hollered, startling a flock of birds into the sky. Reluctantly, a young Jack Teague, not yet the infamous Pirate Lord of the Caribbean, pulled himself out of the sand. Slipping and sliding through the devilishly hot sand, he rushed off the beach, breaking into a full on sprint when his boots hit the meadow grass. It was not wise (or healthy) to keep Captain Edward Teague waiting. He shoved the wooden door open and rushed inside, apprehensive as to what exactly his father was on about now. The expression on the older pirate's face would have terrified the bravest. Jack relaxed, his father was in a wonderful mood today. (You'll want to modify this to 'the older pirate's face' or some such as Teague is not a Sparrow)

"Sit down," he growled. Jack did, immediately. With obvious pleasure, Teague hefted a small chest onto the table. He drummed his fingers on the wood, letting the suspense build. It was a favorite game of his, waiting and drawing things out just to get a rise out of people. The clever lad had learned this game well at a young age, and was content to sit still and quiet as long as his father wanted to. The room began to darken as the sun set. Shadows filled the room and the sun sank, finally overwhelmed by the thickening darkness of twilight. Eventually, the barbarous captain fished a battered skull key out of his coat and opened the chest. He pulled a wooden goblet out and tossed it to his son.

"Happy birthday," he snarled, jumping to his feet. Jack examined the goblet. A carving of intricately woven ivy snaked up the stem and wrapped, intertwining, around the body of the goblet.

"Good luck charm," Teague stated, ripping a tankard and bottle of rum out of a cabinet. He poured himself a healthy portion and slammed the tankard down. Sloshing over the rim, rum splattered the table. He stalked back to his chair.

"Where'd you get it?" Jack asked. He was quite taken with it, truth be told, but a bit bothered by a curious dark stain on the side of the goblet.

"Consider it a gift from your mother," he said, staring at him, daring him to reply.

He dared.

"Oh?" Jack mused, "and where is mother?" He paused, gauging the odd look in his father's eyes before continuing.

". . . 'aven't seen her for awhile," he finished.

"Heh," his father said, getting to his feet, " I'll tell ya when yer older." He glowered, his version of a fond farewell, and slammed the door so hard it rattled in its frame. Jack was left alone to puzzle over the goblet. He was sure it would prove to be a very lucky thing. Oh and it was, perhaps. . . but not for him. Not for him at all.

Years Later

Will fiddled with his sleeve in an attempt to entertain himself. Ever since he stepped off the Black Pearl, for what was sure to be the last time, he felt like he had nothing to do with his hands. The restlessness was killing him.

"Will?"

He jumped, startled at the sound of Elizabeth's voice in his ear. He turned. She was standing in the doorway, going on about something, but he couldn't listen. As his weather-beaten sleeve finally ripped at the seam, he realized that all he wanted to do was hurt something. The thought surprised him and he knew he should have been shocked, especially since it was Elizabeth he was thinking about! There was a dreadful pounding in his head that grew louder with every breath. He couldn't concentrate. He could barely breath.

He forced himself to pay attention, but then she stopped talking and turned away, her brown hair blowing in the wind as she hurried across the busy street. "As beautiful as a picture," his mother would have said. Will hadn't noticed, he was too busy imagining himself yanking her hair back and slashing her throat to the neck-bone.

What?! That thought did make him shudder; it even sent a horde of chills racing down his spine. Suddenly disoriented, he leaned against a stall. The world around him had changed. It was as if someone had turned the clatter and clang of the town up louder and louder, up to par with a cannonade, even. Hundreds of sounds bombarded him: snippets of conversation, the lap of the water against the ships in the harbor, the thumping of goods being passed hand to hand-- he felt he was going mad.

Distracted, Will stepped into the shade of a building. He had been out in the sun far too long and he could feel his exposed skin begin to burn. He shaded his eyes. Not only was the world louder, but everything was coming into a painfully sharp focus: a head-renting headache. The wisp of cloud in the sky didn't do much to soften the sun's rays, and the white dirt reflected the light marvelously, forcing him to squint no matter where he happened to be standing. He felt physically spent, even taking air into his lungs was a battle. He had to fight for every breath. What was wrong with him?

"Look at tha' pretties... See 'ow they bob... up and down... Up and downnn... " a raspy voice muttered into the air. With relief, he left the market square and stepped into a side street. As he wandered farther, the noises of the market faded. Will scowled, covering his nose. Sure, the noises had faded, but now he had the pleasure of the putrid stench of waste. He watched his footing, no need to stumble into a nasty little surprise.

"Ruffians and scugs, scum o' the world... gut meeee.... furrh a preacher...."

Will looked up. An old man, obviously senile, struggled to pull a cart out of a rut in the street. The hilt of a dagger stuck out from under a potato sack. Will scowled, discomfort forgotten. Now the only thing on his mind was the fact that he didn't have his sword on him. He walked toward the man, pulling his face into what he hoped was a genuine smile. He was determined to barter the dagger from him and put it to good use.

The old man was wary, fidgeting and jerking his head to the side as if trying to force water out of his ears. The gnarled beggar stopped his violent movements and stared transfixed at something around Will's arm. Will looked down. There was a copper chain wrapped around his wrist. Where?

"I'll give ye ol' Cat'erine here... For that pretty thing thar..." the old man muttered, motioning at the chain.

"... Cat'erine..?" Will repeated, eyebrows raised.

Now it was the old man who looked confused. His eyes dulled. The man pursed his lips in concentration, throwing his wrinkled face into relief as he ran Will's words through his mind. He pulled out the dagger and waved it around.

"It's what ye wanted t'ain't it?" he said, proffering the dagger.

Will gave him the chain, then stomped off, dagger in hand. He got no farther than the road, when he forgot what he was doing and just stood there, looking to the entire world like a boy who had let go of his mother's hand and wandered off too far. He gasped as a spasm of pain racked his body. He put a hand to his heart as another tremor raced through him. A few concerned passersby crowded around, anxious to help. There was a dreadful pounding in his head and every beat sent a new wave of pain through him. His body was on fire.

As quickly as it came, it stopped. How odd. Winded, he swayed on his feet for a few seconds before regaining his footing. Either assured he was fine, or simply anxious to be somewhere else more interesting, the crowd dispersed, melting back into the hustle and bustle of the town as if nothing unusual had happened.

"Will!"

He turned, a smile already on his face as Elizabeth practically threw herself into his arms. Surprisingly, he had regained his strength and didn't stumble back when she hugged him. They shared a quick kiss before she pulled away and stepped back.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes." He couldn't help smiling at the concern in her voice and face. "I don't know what happened.... but it's gone now. I'm fine. Honestly."

"What were you doing over there?" she asked, wrinkling her nose at the putrid stench wafting their way. As different as she was from the demure Elizabeth he used to know, remnants of her genteel upbringing still remained. He looked. She pointed toward a particularly seedy alley wedged between a tavern and a brothel. In the alley an old beggar shrieked at a man who had wandered past.

The old man picked up a rock and began bashing the man with it, screaming incoherently the entire time. He disintegrated into a fit of laughter as the man's blood soaked the beggar's threadbare sleeves and stained his hands. The scent was nauseating.

A woman screamed and threw herself onto the corpse, wailing and tearing at her hair. "NO! Why?! Come back, come back, don't leave me," she sobbed, rocking the man in her arms.

Will felt Elizabeth stiffen in his arms and then begin to tremble. She was crying too. "Shh," he said, pulling her closer, "let's go somewhere else. . ."

"Are you certain you saw me come out of... that alley?" Will asked some time later, after the shock of the murder had passed and they had escaped the terrible scent. He couldn't remember what he had been doing before he saw his fiancé. There was nothing but a dark haze in his mind when he tried to focus on that point in time. What had he been doing?

"Oh! Where did you get that." she said, pointing at a dagger Will was looked down and was just as surprised as she was to see it there. Unfortunately, he couldn't tell her where the dagger had come from either. It was a ridiculously shoddy dagger. What on earth possessed him to buy it? Ah, he was without a sword.... but why bother with such a poor dagger? He was just as puzzled by it as his fiancé was. She sighed, then linked arms with him. The taciturn couple walked to the harbor.

The old man, now screaming, staggered into the street. His scarred face twisted into a disturbing, blood spattered smile and his blue eyes winked out sinisterly. Every few steps he'd twitch, contorting in pain as his bony hands scrabbled blindly for something in the air ahead of him.

Blood dripped from his soaked sleeves onto the street, sending up a puffs of white dust. He kept pointing at passersby, beckoning. Watching nothing but the frightened faces of those he would beckon, he didn't notice the boy to his left. The boy stumbled, he fell hard to his knees. The barrel he had been holding rolled out of his reach and into the path of the old man. He tripped, landing directly in the path of two remarkably angry carriage horses. Fortunately for him, it was an instant death. (Hardly what he deserved, but instantaneous nonetheless.)

A crowd of beggars and prostitutes descended on the corpse. Grimacing at the old man's queer smile and bloodied garments, they pulled off anything valuable. A fair complexioned floozy with frizzy red hair picked a copper chain out of the dirt. She held it to her wrist, admiring the look of it against her skin. Satisfied, she spent a few seconds winding the long fine chain around her wrist. Afterward, she walked back to her corner of the street, enticing potential customers all the while.

Ah, once again, you've made it this far! Bravo! :)

Give me a review and I'll give you two! (bribery. Who knows? Maybe it will work. =) :)

Suggestions, comments, word choice suggestions, random remarks that don't apply? Sure. Why not. :) I LOVE reviews.

This fic was betaed by the Master of Horror himself, K. M. Warth and the sagacious and astute Nytd. Couldn't have done it without you two. Thanks. Grammar, is my mortal enemy. :)

REVIEW REPLIES:

Paul: You asked if Jack was going to get tortured? lol. I'd tell you if I could. Mentally, definitely. :) Sparrow's going to be battling his darker self VERY soon. . . *sinister music*

FreedomoftheSeas: :) I LOVE long reviews! Thank you. I'm happy you like my writing style. I, personally, hate it. I'm ecstatic my imagery left an impression! I've always thought I was terrible at it.. .

PM: Thanks for reviewing. Awesome? Perhaps, in a twisted way. Will I update soon? I work around my stellar beta-reader's schedule.