A/N: Hey, guys! Okay, that was probably a little too chipper, but I'm back from my vacation and feeling more like myself than I have for the past couple of months. But before we get into things here, let me just say how nice it was to come back home to all of your reviews. Honest to God, you guys are amazing, you really are. I also got a very lovely message from Lolryne, who drew a piece from this story's prequel, "My Captain." I posted the link to it on my profile, so if you have time, I would definitely suggest checking it out, as she did an awesome job with it. :) Anyway, that's about it for me. I hope this chapter was worth the wait and that you guys had a good week while I was gone. Enjoy!
Random Side Note: If any of you are able to visit NYC sometime in the next couple of weeks, I would highly suggest buying tickets to see the play "Trust" starring Zach Braff. If you like hilarious plays that still manage to have a number of serious moments, then I definitely think you'll enjoy this one.
Disclaimer: I own a very large nothing.
Chapter X:
"Your face, it dances and it haunts me; your laughter still ringing in my ears. I still find pieces of your presence here, even after all these years."
-I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You, by Colin Hay-
Jonathan stared at the pouch that lay in the palm of his hand, blue eyes wide with a realization he could not yet accept, even with Jack's voice ringing in his ears.
"You wouldn't have noticed a pouch somewhere, would you? Maybe on the way in or something? It's dark red with gold trimming; about as big as my hand."
Confusion clouding his clarity as to what this new piece of evidence could mean, Jonathan stuffed the item in question deep inside his pocket, thanking the older man and his son before shakily making his way back onto the Sacred Heart. Not trusting their sleeping corridors to be a safe enough place for reflection (what with having been interrupted twice in a row by Christopher) Jonathan asked Captain Percival if he could take residence in his cabin, if only for a minute. The older man had raised a curious eyebrow, blue eyes sharp with barely hidden concern.
"You okay there, kid?" he asked after a second or two.
Jonathan nodded, hands itching to reach for the pouch that sent his mind into a whirlwind of scattered and startled thoughts.
After he was granted permission (was there ever really a chance he'd say no?) the young brunet rushed into the cabin, pulling out the red, gold trimmed pouch the minute the door was closed.
Jonathan's heart leapt wildly as he took in the sight of his newly acquired possession, his mind a mess of thoughts as he tried to piece it all together.
But what was "it" exactly?
"It" could stand for several things. The pouch itself, the mysterious Ghost Ship, the towns left behind in their wake…
Or "it" could stand for a certain Jack Sullivan.
Though that would then change "it" to "him" now, wouldn't it.
Jonathan shook his head rapidly, shaggy brown locks skewing his vision as he did so. This was insane. Absolutely insane! Just because none of the villagers claimed the pouch to be their own didn't mean that the item had to automatically belong to someone on the Ghost Ship, right? Couldn't it have been a long lost treasure that a townsperson had forgotten about years before the malicious vessel even arrived?
But most people – especially those who are down on their luck – wouldn't just forget about a lost pouch full of money.
Hesitantly, the thirteen year old opened the velvet treasure, eyes going wide at the contents therein.
There were a lot of shillings in there; more than most sixteen year old teenagers – even sixteen year old pirates – carried on their being on a day to day basis. He, or whoever else had been with him, would've had to acquire a consistent and profitable means of providing for themselves, and in the world of piracy, that was never a humble little business that bloomed into sudden success based on nothing short of hard work and passion.
Money like that, especially in the hands of pirate, meant that there was some serious pillaging going on.
Damn it!
John didn't really know why it bothered him so much; the idea that this Jack Sullivan could be a part of such a monstrous crew. He only met the Lion Boy once, but he really liked him; had considered him a friend in the making. Not only that, but his personality just didn't mesh with the Ghost Ship's trail of destruction at all. He'd been so kind; so eager to help with his bloody nose, so insistent on making it up to him… How could someone like that be a part of a horrible thing like the ship they were chasing after now?
And yet his philosophy on pillaging made perfect sense, didn't it…
"Hate to say it, but stealing's really not so bad, once you get used to it. I mean, you're a pirate: you know how it is, but what I'm saying is that pillaging is a lot less harmful than most crimes out there, you know?"
Jonathan shivered. His take on stealing from others was more than obvious, and yet…and yet…
His perspective in terms of stealing had been more than obvious, yes, but his other philosophy…
"The Navy gets their pants in a twist over something as frivolous as stealing, when the truth is, people are out there dying because of their inability to stop far worse crimes than that. Crimes that should never go unpunished."
"'Crimes that should never go unpunished?' What kind of crimes?"
"Murder, of course! What did you think I meant?"
There was no doubt about it: Jack's complete disapproval of killing was unquestionable.
So what did that mean? Did it mean that Jack really wasn't a part of the Ghost Ship? Did it mean that he actually was, but he thought murder was okay if it was indirect? Or maybe…
It was then that a thought struck Jonathan so strongly, so intensely, that his immediate reaction was to take a seat on the Captain's bed. It was just too crazy; too outside the realm of possibility. After all of the destruction he and the rest of the Sacred Heart had witnessed together, after all of the lives they saw destroyed, how could this new thought hold any real validity? And yet once it hit him, it wouldn't go away; a theory that tied all of his previous ones together in a way that both made complete and utter sense while making no sense at all.
Was it possible that the Ghost Ship didn't actually know what their pillaging had caused? Could it be that they stole on a day to day basis without any realization as to what it was doing to the towns left behind?
The idea made his hair stand on end as an accompanying shiver crept down his spine. How could they not know? Yet at the same time, how would they? It would make no sense for them to go back to a town in which they had plundered, knowing full well that the possibility of their capture was high. Yet they took so much from those towns. Was it really possible that they didn't grasp the full concept of what it was they were doing to those people? What it was they had already done?
A sharp knock had Jonathan back up on his feet in mere seconds. Without waiting for a "Come in," Captain Percival opened the door to his cabin, eyeing the boy in front him suspiciously.
"I'm okay," the brunet commented softly, recognizing the concern in the older man's gaze as quick as Ben used to. "Just needed a minute to get my thoughts together, I guess…"
Eyebrows still drawn together in obvious disbelief, Jonathan shifted awkwardly where he stood. He had always been a terrible liar. Besides the fact that lying in and of itself was rare for him, it was rarer in that it was the Captain he was lying too. Okay, maybe they weren't lies lies, but he'd been doing it a lot lately; the whole sneaking around thing. It left a guilty pit in his stomach that he didn't want to face.
"Well, I hope your thoughts are together then," the Captain finally responded, "Because it's time for sparring practice. Now come."
-MV-
Percival made his way towards the lower deck, young Jonathan right behind him. He knew damn well that the kid was hiding something. It wasn't just today that he noticed it either. It was weeks ago, actually; the night he had found him on the main deck of the Sacred Heart, sewing away at sails he had previously neglected.
Let it go.
Ah, he hadn't felt that in a while; that voice that contradicted his gut instinct. It should have left him feeling angry – disturbed, even – but instead, an odd sort of peace would always flow through him. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he came to realize that whatever instinct that was overpowering his usual confrontational one had never actually contradicted his suspicions. It was just a feeling, really; something that seemed insistent upon reminding him not to push it; to let the lad have a few secrets, if only just for now.
"For now" being those two key words…
Either way, was it really that wrong to wonder what was going on with this son? Wasn't that being a good father? Hell if he'd know, what with him having done such a wonderful job with this first son… Still, his suspicion about whatever was bugging John didn't stem from a place of malice. He knew the kid was an awful liar, so his attempts lately were just plain obvious, but he also knew that the kid would never lie based on selfish reasoning; that, if there was something he was trying to hide, he too wasn't coming from a place of spite.
Having finally cleared away both barrels of water and rum, the two stood across from one another in the dimly lit room, John looking to Percival for further instructions.
"We haven't practiced since seeing Carla, so we're really going to have to step it up if we want to be prepared."
"Prepared… You mean for the towns on Governor Hutnik's list?"
Percival nodded. There was a lot more too it then that, of course; like the plan he was currently putting together in order to capture the crew of the Ghost Ship, but he didn't want to tell Jonathan – or the rest of the crew, for that matter – before it was entirely developed. Riling them up with an idea he hadn't finished executing just wasn't his style.
"You've gotten considerably better since we first set sail," Percival said in a rare bout of blatant praise, "But, 'I'm better than I used to be,' isn't going to cut it when we come face to face with that black hearted crew, so c'mon there, Newbie; let's see what you got."
Hands hovering over the hilts of their swords, it was a small nod from the Captain that sent the two pirates running towards each other in a rush; the both of them extracting their swords at the last second before they clashed with a resounding clang.
As their weapons collided and crashed, Percival couldn't help but reflect on how he no longer had to hold back with Jonathan. The first time he decided to go at the kid with the full weight of his skill, he had felt more than just a little hesitant. But constantly holding back was only going to cripple him. If they were ever going to be forced into battle again (which was appearing more and more likely given the vessel they were currently after) the older man knew damn well that no devious cutthroat was going to go easy on him due to his age. Jonathan had to know what he was up against in order to be truly prepared, and that meant going at him with everything he had.
Mind having been fairly deep in reflection, the Captain was surprised when Jonathan's sword knocked against his own with a resounding crash; the force of his swing having caused Percival to almost lose hold of his hilt. The competitive side of him roared at the impact, but the father side of him took a secret thrill in knowing that his protégé was now skilled to the point where he had to pay full attention when sparring with him.
However, that cocky little smirk on the young teen's face was just see-hoe not going to fly.
Moving to take his last and final swing, Percival was caught completely off guard when John not only noticed it coming, but decided to both defend and attack all in one, swift motion; a move he would have never thought possible from the teen.
Having been forcibly led to the wall, Jonathan was at the perfect distance to take full advantage of the very same trap the older man had set up for him. Bringing his left leg back until the bottom of his foot was planted firmly on the wall behind him, Jonathan pushed himself off and into the air, if only for a moment, before doing a complete summersault onto the wooden planks below, seamlessly diving through Percival's outstretched legs in order to get out of his reach. He'd used the diving between his stance trick before, but holy hell, it was never like that.
What really made his mouth drop (in his head, anyway) was when, instead of going on the defense by putting space between them before the Captain turned back around, the older man felt a small prick at the back of his spine; the tip of Jonathan's sword meeting his clothes with barely an inch left in between.
The pirate's eyes widened at the contact, and as proud as he was of his ever-learning pupil, no part of him could let him get away with that maneuver.
Turning around faster than one could say, "Davy Jones' Locker," the physician thrust his sword against the one at his back, sending it flying through the air and crashing to the floor.
Silence ensued as both men stood across from each other, much like they had before the practice had begun. Jonathan's eyes were wide with shock, though there was something else there too; something that Percival himself was more than familiar with.
Thrill.
What he detected underneath that, however, was what set his teeth on edge. Beneath the shock and the thrill and the rush of adrenaline, the older man couldn't help but notice a dose of fear. Not from having his sword thrust out of his hand, but from the fact that his sword had met the edge of his back.
"S-Sorry," John stuttered.
"No you're not"
John immediately blanched, the two of them silently understanding the meaning behind the older man's words. The brunet wasn't sorry for having almost beaten Percival, but not in a vindictive way. The reason he wasn't sorry was because he knew that there was never any threat; for his safety and especially for the Captain's. There was no reason to apologize because there was no real danger to begin with; at least not between the two of them.
So why the apology?
The "sorry" was not a response to having almost won, but a response to the fear that Jonathan knew existed from having almost beaten his father. What worried Percival the most was that his hesitance did not stem from the knowledge that he was, in fact, his father, but the knowledge that he was now skilled enough to successfully beat a lot of people out there. And not just in sparring matches, but in real, full on battles.
No, the fear was not born from the realization that he had almost beaten Percival, but from the realization that he could now properly defend himself in battle.
From the realization that he could kill.
That was why John had apologized. For not only having the ability, but knowing damn well that he couldn't actually act on it.
A part of the Captain, a selfish part, wanted to feed his son's fear. The idea of Jonathan killing made his blood run cold. Not just because the lad was his son (though that was admittedly a very big part of it) but simply in that this was Jonathan he was talking about.
But another part of him, the logical part, anyway, knew that Jonathan's fear was one that had to be conquered. No, he would never encourage him to kill, and God only knew how much Percival hoped that he would never, nee-hee-hee-hever have to make that decision. But, if the time came where a sword was brought to his neck – again – the boy would have to make a decision: His life or his attacker's.
As of now, John would most likely opt for the blade against his throat.
Deciding that the discussion was best left for another day in order to let the kid think, Percival turned towards the direction of John's sword. Picking it up with a casual flip, the older man turned back around to present it to his son; the memory of when he first gave it to him flooding through his mind before reality called him back to attention.
"Are you mad at me?"
"No," he answered calmly, the air around them slowly settling back into the norm. "I do, however, have a suggestion." Not wanting to focus back on the silent problem they both knew existed, the older man turned his attention to an idea he'd been contemplating during his last several sparring practices with Jonathan. "You've been getting better and better at this style, so much so that you've even incorporated your own tricks into it as well. Let's face it, Newbie: You're not exactly a 'Newbie' at this anymore, are you?"
Jonathan flushed, alerting the older man that his praise of him was still very much appreciated.
"You have this style – Benjamin's and mine – borderline perfected, and I'm talking down to a 'T' here, kid. So how about this: How about you name it."
Not unexpectedly, the brunet's eyes widened; his awe struck expression staring up into his own. "Captain?"
"You heard right. This style is yours now, remember? I gave it to you, and so it is your responsibility to perfect it; to treat it to the best of your ability. This form of fighting… Ben and I never really gave it a name. We just called it 'our style' amongst ourselves and when teaching the crew, but now this brand of protection is in your hands and your hands alone. Name it what you will, but it's important…it's important that you name it."
Jonathan nodded softly, understanding the true meaning behind the older man's words. "Thank you, Captain. I'll give it a name as soon as I think of one. One that…one that will carry on…"
Percival nodded, seemingly indifferent, but it did not take away from the sincerity of their conversation.
-MV-
For as busy as his day had been, John would've thought falling asleep an easy task, yet hours after he first laid down in his hammock, his mind was still busy dealing with a whirlwind of thoughts, keeping the young teen wide awake.
First, there was the mystery that was Jack Sullivan. Was he or was he not a member of the Ghost Ship? Was the discovery even worth telling the Captain about?
Then there was the unspoken realization between both him and Captain Percival: The knowledge that he – Jonathan Michael Dorian – was physically able to kill someone. As for mentally? Emotionally? Well, that was entirely different…
Then, of course, there was the bittersweet honor of carrying on Ben's legacy. No, it was never phrased in such away, but the Captain's insistence upon naming the style both he and his first mate had created together was more than obvious, and the older man knew it too. Giving their form of fighting a title wasn't for Percival's benefit; a way to indirectly boost his ego. It was so that something that Ben had helped create – had put his time and effort into – would be able to live on.
Tears gathered at the back of Jonathan's eyes at the thought of the former first mate, forcing him to blink them away. He didn't always cry upon thinking of Benjamin anymore. The pain, while still very much there, had become more bearable over time; allowing him to think back on his memory with a smile. Sometimes, though, it was just too hard to hold back; especially after a day like today, in which he silently wished that he didn't have to create a name to carry on Ben's legacy. Not because he wasn't honored, but because he wished that Ben was still alive to do so for himself.
Sniffling, John silently contemplated his last couple of months aboard the Sacred Heart. How would Ben have reacted upon going back to sea? How would Ben have responded upon hearing about the Ghost Ship? How would Ben have handled coming across those death ridden towns? What would Ben have said upon seeing Jonathan's heart break for the first time? What would he have said if John came up to him, scared and confused, about knowing how to kill but not being able to?
What would he have said?
Wiping his last remaining tear with the end of his palm, John knew what he had to do in order to distract himself from those heart wrenching questions; questions that he'd never get an answer to.
Making sure not to wake anyone, the young brunet quietly opened the compartment, his free hand reaching for the lantern that had been there since the first night Phillip had given it to him.
Sitting up so that it was easier to read the journal, Jonathan opened it to where he had folded the last page, not at all suspecting to see the date that stared back.
April 2nd, 1712
Like a shot of adrenaline to the veins, the journal grabbed the teen's undivided attention, his mind now busy with what lay before him rather than his previous thoughts. 1712? That meant that the author didn't write in his journal for three years since the last entry. What on earth had happened?
April 2nd, 1712
Wow, it's been a while, hasn't it? This is another reason why I stopped writing when I was a kid. I always got so passionate about keeping a journal and recording the various points in my life, only to then lose interest months later. I guess it's because my main source of expression lies with my paintings. Like I've always said, I don't consider myself a writer, but I do enjoy it from time to time.
Jonathan breathed a sigh of relief, silently wondering if it was weird to have been so concerned over a man he never met. Still, hearing that nothing had happened to him other than losing interest in keeping a journal made the knot in his gut untie itself immediately.
Still, he had to wonder: What was it about the painter's life that had suddenly caused him to write again?
Feeling the knot that had just undone itself slowly start to reform, Jonathan read further, ignoring the silent cloud of dread that loomed over his shoulder like an uninvited guest.
I can't help but wish that what made me pick this thing up again was due to a series of good events, but unfortunately, it's quite the opposite.
Those two have been fighting non-stop lately. I've been volunteering to babysit just to get that poor kid out of there. Don't get me wrong; they're good parents. I have no doubts that either of them would take a canon to the chest for the lad, I really don't, but they don't get that, even at three years old, the tyke is still going to be able to tell that something is wrong with all of that hollering back and forth. Their relationship just keeps getting worse and worse, and I hate to say this, what with her being my sister, but she's always the one to kindle that fire.
His sister! After all this time, Jonathan finally knew who the frequently mentioned "she" was in relation to the author! Well, that was a fun revelation, at least, though the theme of this entry wasn't sounding exactly positive, so far. Very unusual, for the artist…
All I know is that those two are really on the rocks, and to make matters worse, his already frail patience has been even frailer, what with his newest bout of patients.
Wait…what? His friend he always talked about was a doctor? Well, he didn't see that one coming, but it was definitely an interesting discovery. Maybe, if he ever got up the courage to tell Captain Percival about the journal, he would like to read it himself for information as to how other physicians were approaching various ailments, if the journalist himself ever delved into that, of course.
Shaking his head, the young brunet read on.
Three different people were carried – literally carried – to his practice the other day. All of them are on the brink of death, and he just doesn't know what to do. It wasn't until yesterday that he came up with this idea that just seems…I don't know. I'm not a physician, but I've never heard of such a method like the one he wants to try. Then again, these people are on the verge of death. Of course he's willing to try anything. I know if I were the one in need of medical attention, I'd want my physician to try anything as well.
It's just that opening someone's body, no matter how strong the means of sedation, just seems very, very risky.
Wait…
And his boss – that stout man with his balding counterpart – has been giving me a bad feeling lately; a very bad feeling.
Wait a minute…
I went to see him the other day, hoping to cheer him up a little, and I swear to you – that man wore a smile that was straight from the devil himself; all while staring at those patients; all while staring at him.
No. No way.
Maybe I'm just being paranoid, since I know those two don't get along as it is, but from past experiences, I know I don't get that feeling on a whim.
No. Just…no! It was impossible, wasn't it? There was just no way; no way that this journal could belong to –
But maybe it really is just my Per-Bear senses tingling; maybe I just worry a little too much about him.
This time, Jonathan didn't bother to stop the tears. With the latest journal entry read – the entry that explained it all – the young brunet held it to his chest like a long lost treasure, rocking himself back and forth as he hid his crying eyes behind shaking knees, trying desperately not to wake up the crew.
How hadn't he realized it earlier? How hadn't he figured it out?
Trembling, Jonathan's arms wrapped lovingly around the leather bound book, hugging it as if he were hugging a long lost friend.
It all made sense now; from entry number one to the entry he just finished reading. The struggling artist, the arguing couple, the three year old boy, the optimism that laced almost each and every entry; even his ever growing feelings of warm familiarity as he read the journal over time; the writer's ability to make him laugh on the darkest of days, the sense that they were friends…
The keeper of the journal was not just some struggling painter from years past, no. The author of the book that had helped him escape from reality was none other than Benjamin himself; the diary a long lost fragment from his past; a fragment that the used-to-be-cabin-boy now clung to like a life line.
Jonathan spent the rest of the night crying before finally falling asleep, the journal still clutched to his chest. The last thing he remembered thinking – the last thing he remembered wishing – was that it was Benjamin he clung to instead; not just the journal left behind.
A/N: Not much to say here other than that I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Until next time!