Jack sat on his bunk, staring into the blackness before him and fighting the memories that threatened to burst to the forefront of his mind. Nobody, perhaps with the exception of Gibbs and one or two others, had any idea what had happened to him. He had defeated his enemies, apparently triumphed in every way, yet he was broken. It was all her fault. Lei, that was what they called her now. Thunder. It fit, but he could never forget the feisty young woman who he had pulled from the ocean twelve years ago. To him, her name would always be Elizabeth. She was beautiful, but beauty was common enough. What was unique and intriguing about her was that she was powerful. She could wrap a man around her finger with a look. Her kiss could make a coward face death bravely. And her love of another could break a man irreparably.
He knew she had a child now. He knew that her tenth wedding anniversary had happened the month before, bringing her husband with it. He knew Calypso had granted William his freedom, and found another, a single man, to do the task of Jones. He knew everything about her. How could one not, when her exploits were spoken of at every bar in the Caribbean and just about everywhere else? He tried constantly to forget her, but everywhere he looked there was something to remind him of her. Every time he walked by the mainmast, he remembered her kiss as if it were yesterday. Every port was full of stories of her. She had not been idle in the last ten years. She had refitted The Empress and sailed around the Caribbean, taking young William III with her. She continued her pirating ways unabated. She had been caught once, but the late Governor Swann was still respected, and his daughter and grandson were quietly released. Five years ago, he had sent her a copy of the chart to the Fountain of Youth. She had left a message for him in a tavern in Nassau Port.
"Thank you, Jack. I plan to take Willy and head to the Fountain. Perhaps, in the next few hundred years, we shall meet again. Lei Elizabeth Turner"
It was cruelly impersonal, yet he had slept with the small scrap of paper under his pillow for the last five years. Two years ago, he had allowed himself to think about her for a whole evening, and it had driven him to suicide. The failure of his self-slaying had driven him further into his personal hell. He thought about going out on deck and jumping overboard, but knew it would not help. He could not die. How he had longed for immortality! Yet now all he wanted was to be rid of it. To go back to the Locker and take out his anger at life on himself; killing each facet of his character until nothing was left. To rest in blackness. Death, it seemed, would be wonderful.
He had loved before; his little sister had been his favorite person in the world in his youth. She had died in illegitimate childbirth when she was seventeen, after being raped by a sailor, who Jack had then killed. Even at that, the pain had been almost completely gone after two years. If he thought of her, he still felt a twinge of sadness. Elizabeth wasn't dead, and yet ten years had not dulled the pain. He did not understand the workings of his own heart.
He had an inordinate longing to see her again, even if nothing could possibly come of it. Just to look at the beautiful face of the woman he loved seemed like the thought of Heaven. How often he wished he had never met her in the first place. He could have left her in the water; to live or die depending on the speed of her commodore friend and his men. Yet, even as he wished he had never met her, he knew he was glad he had. He would not have traded his time with her for the world. The time in which he had known her had been the happiest time in his life. Her smile, her wit, her kiss; everything about her had made him dazzlingly happy.
He had never thought himself to be the kind of man who would fall in love. Perhaps that was why he had fallen so hard. Hard enough that even after ten years he was still not back on his feet. At first, he had always told himself that he would either recover from love altogether or find someone else to love. It hadn't happened.
He stood up, lit the lamp, and went to peer into the mirror. The dashing rogue from ten years ago was nothing but a vague memory. His eyes had been one of his most charming features, but now they held no sparkle, no laughter, no wit. They were dead. His mouth was turned down as if it did not have enough energy to smile. In truth, he didn't. He tried to force a smile across his face and only got a grimace. He looked like an malnourished stray dog. His clothes were tattered. His hair was matted beyond help. Idly, he picked up a pair of shear-like scissors and sat down to cut of his mane. After all, the rest of Jack Sparrow was dead and gone, why not this too? When he had cut it all off, he put the trinkets that had adorned it in the drawer of his desk and looked at himself again. He had left it about down to his collar in the back, and it hung shaggy around his eyes and ears. He was somewhat surprised, because it actually made him look younger and better than he had lately. He tucked his faded bandana into the drawer.
Somehow, not knowing quite why, he suddenly became determined to go on. Lizzie would have wanted him to be what he once had. He could not do that, but he could at least stop looking like a drunken sot. Even if his heart was irreparably broken, he could put on a brave front for the world. He had seen the disappointment in the crew of the ship they had just taken. Once, men had been almost delighted if Captain Jack Sparrow's ship attacked theirs. Now, men watched Calico Jack Rackham with pity and disillusionment. It was time to resurrect the legend.
Digging about in the trunk in the corner, he managed to find two good sets of clothes; rough but not ragged. He even found a coat that was quite similar to the one that used to be his favorite. He polished his hat with waterproofing grease. Dressing in a simple white blouse, black breeches, black boots, the dark navy coat, and his hat, he headed out on the deck. It was a clear night, but the moon was at its smallest point, a sliver-like crescent. Ragetti and Pintel were on night watch. Their eyes widened slightly at the sight of their captain; it had been a long time since he came out for no reason, dressed in clean clothes. Also, they were shocked by his hair, which they had never seen short, and the fact that he was not wearing a single trinket…except for a bit of cloth tied around his wrist. Once, long ago, he had cut his hand on something, and Elizabeth had ripped that scrap of cloth off one of her old petticoats and used it to bandage the wound.
He headed down to the dining cabin, where most of the crew was drinking and laughing. A hush fell over the group as he stepped into the room. They all stared at him, shocked. Gibbs' eyes were as wide as saucers. Jack almost felt like smiling, laughing. Almost, but not quite.
Jack did well that night, managing to refrain from too much drinking. But when he got to his cabin, he found himself sobbing like a child who had just lost their best friend. Ten years of pain hit him like a cannon ball, and he cried himself to sleep.