Disclaimer: Just playing around with PotC. Don't own any of it.
A/N: Well, don't let the quick update give you the idea that threatening reviews will work in the future -) I couldn't believe the outcry against me just leaving you hanging there, not knowing what would happen to Prescott. I have to say that even though many of you called me evil, your reviews warmed my heart as well. I am so happy that you all like my OC so much. Makes an author proud! Anyway, I was worried what would happen if I left you with that cliffy for too long, so I went right to work writing this chappy.
Chapter Ten: "Pain"
It should hurt. For five days straight, or maybe six, he had been beaten almost to the point of death in the dank, stinking hold of Boothe's ship. He had felt each cut, each blow, each time a partially healed wound reopened. Every inch of his body had cried out in anguish at even the slightest motion. After Boothe had driven the heated spike through his shoulder, the pain had been constant. He hadn't been able to think about anything else. Towards the end, he even ceased to feel respite when Boothe left him alone, for the memory of the beatings would be just as excruciating. Then, he had to slice off his own arm to escape. The pain had been so overwhelming that he had almost blacked out. How he had made it up to the deck, to Norrington, he would never know. Pain like that does not just go away. Shouldn't it hurt? Shouldn't he feel … something?
"If you're looking for this to make sense, you're going to be sorely disappointed."
Prescott's eyes shot open and he sat bolt upright in the bed. He had been to the Naval Hospital dozens of times, as a patient or visiting fallen comrades. Everything about the room he was in seemed in order, except for the fact that the man seated on the edge of his bed had been dead for over ten years. Blinking several times, he tried to make the apparition disappear, but when he opened his eyes again, there sat his little brother, Findley. Every detail was exactly as he remembered. Fin's light blue eyes and curly blonde hair were the same as the last day he saw his brother alive. Prescott pursed his lips, blinking again. This was not possible. Was it? He did just cut off his own appendage. A man who would do something like that may not be quite right in the head. Maybe Jack had rubbed off on him, and he'd gone crazy.
"Please, Pres," the ghost said. "You're logical to a fault, not crazy. And, I'm not a ghost."
Prescott quirked an eyebrow. Logical men do not see, and hear their dead siblings, he thought to himself. "Am I dead?" he said aloud, noting that the act of speaking wasn't quite as awful as it had been on the deck of Boothe's ship.
Findley shrugged. "That's up to you."
"Don't be cryptic. It doesn't suit you," Prescott retorted, automatically using the tone he'd used countless times with his younger brother.
The ghost smiled, sliding off the edge of the bed and walking across the room to stare out the window. "I was wondering how long it would take you to start yelling at me," he said, turning around to shoot a glare over his shoulder, "and, I already told you, I'm not a ghost."
Pressing his lips together, the injured officer wished he could get out of bed and deck his little brother.
"Go ahead," Findley said. "Nothing's stopping you."
Much to Prescott's surprise, Fin was right. He swung his legs out of bed and stalked towards the window. Noticing belatedly that both arms swung at his sides. "What the – "
"Yeah, you get those back when it's all said and done," the younger Tarret said, gesturing to Prescott's right arm. "In the event that you decide to lop one off during your days among the living."
Prescott scowled. "Is it all said and done?"
"Once again, dear brother, that is up to you," Findley said. "He had an older brother once," he went on, gesturing with his head to someone behind Prescott.
The older officer turned abruptly, and saw Jack Sparrow standing just inside of the door to his room. His hand still held the doorknob, knuckles white. He was wearing the pristine breaches and vest of a naval uniform, though the vest was stained with blood. His eyes were no longer rimmed with thick black kohl and his hair was tied neatly behind his neck. He looked just like any other gentleman in the English Navy. Prescott could see stitches running along his forehead just below his hair line. He wasn't anybody in the British Navy. He was the pirate Captain that Prescott had thrown off a cliff in a last ditch effort to save Annie's life. Apparently, Sparrow had survived. The pirate was staring down at the bed Prescott had just vacated, his lips were parted slightly. He seemed as though he were frozen to that spot, completely unable to take a step further. "Jack?" Prescott breathed.
"He can't see you," Findley supplemented. "Well, not this you. He's looking at that you," the younger man pointed back to the bed.
Prescott shuddered upon seeing the man lying on the bed. A myriad of bandages swathed his right shoulder, where his arm should have been. Dark purple bruises covered what could be seen of his torso and left arm. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and a bandage covered the ugly cut that Prescott knew to be on the left side of his jaw.
Prescott said quietly, shutting his eyes against the memories of the torture that had caused those wounds. "My God," he said under his breath.
"Fraid you don't get to meet Him until your through," Findley piped in.
"Through with what?" Prescott asked, still staring down at his battered body.
"Life," Findley said, coming to stand beside his older brother. He crossed his arms and regarded the pirate, who had not moved since entering the room. "His brother wasn't like you," he said softly.
"How do you know that?" Prescott asked sharply.
"I've met him. He's dead too."
"The two of you sit up in heaven swapping stories, then?"
Findley's face darkened. "I said his brother was dead. I didn't say that I met him in heaven. Jack wasn't as lucky as I was." Blinking, he suddenly turned his gaze to Prescott. "Now, time you're getting back, so you stop scaring our sister and that pirate."
"What?"
"Sorry, if this wasn't what you were expecting, but the Almighty gets tired of sitting at the end of a long dark tunnel with a light and saying 'Go back it's not your time.' So, sometimes He does it a bit differently."
Prescott looked his little brother up and down. "You're my tunnel?"
Findley smiled, his endearing lopsided smile. "So, to speak," he laughed.
"And, it isn't my time?"
"No."
88888
Now, it hurt. Everything hurt. His right shoulder burned, with a white hot pain like nothing he'd ever felt before. His head throbbed, a steady and constant rhythm that set a backdrop for the frequent and irregular stabs of pain that would shoot through various other parts of his body. Even his right arm hurt, despite the fact that he'd left it on Boothe's ship. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. It hurt not to. No wonder his soul had tried to leave this agonizing shell behind. If that was indeed what had happened. It was still possible that he had dreamed up his brother's image.
He could open his eyes. One of them. He thought he could, at least. But, the prospect of doing anything besides lying here, completely motionless, horrified him. He remembered the way the light had been streaming in through the window and could only imagine what that would do to the pounding in his head. Not to mention, if he woke up, he would be expected to speak to someone. He'd struggled so to say Boothe's name, one single, solitary syllable, when he was trying to alert Norrington. If he had not been able to lean his torn body against the mainmast, he would have collapsed long before he summoned the strength to say that one word. How much worse would whole sentences feel.
Footsteps resonated from somewhere in the room, and Prescott recalled seeing Jack standing by the door. That much, apparently, had not been a dream. He heard a chair scraping across the floor and stopping somewhere to his left. Then, he felt a calloused hand come to rest on his arm, the arm he still attached to his body. Two fingers slid around, coming to rest on the underside of his wrist. The pirate was checking for a pulse. Remembering how awful he had looked, Prescott did not blame Jack.
"Courage, Captain," the pirate said hesitantly, squeezing his shipmate's wrist.
He did not finish the prayer, but the rest of the words ran through Prescott's mind, anyway. That was the same prayer he'd said before every action while he was still Captain of the Loyalty. He'd said that prayer over Findley as he lie dying on the deck of the Admrial's flagship. Strange, that only a few years ago, Prescott would have scoffed at the notion of a pirate giving a damn about anyone but himself. He would have flat out refused to believe that a pirate would ever pray, much less pray for someone else. Not anymore. In the past two years, Prescott had come to think of a pirate as a brother. Amazing, how time and experience could change a man's perspective.
The side of the mattress drooped a bit. Jack must be leaning on the bed. "I don't suppose ye can 'ear me," he started, quietly. Prescott felt dishonest, hiding the fact that he could indeed hear the pirate Captain, but still his eyes remained closed. He was just so tired. "But, if ye can, I thought ye should know that I'm sorry."
Sorry. Prescott struggled to stay conscious and hear what the pirate was saying. What in the world was he sorry for?
Almost as if he had heard Prescott's question, Jack answered. "Ye tol' me it was daft t' go after Morgan's ruby, but …" he left the rest of the sentence unfinished. His words were quiet, tinged with regret, wholly unlike the drunken bravado that usually accented the pirate's speech. "Still 'ave the ruby, but it doesn't quite seem worth it, now" The pirate sighed, slowly leaning down and letting his head rest on Prescott's forearm.
The silence following Jack's admission hung heavy in the air. Prescott felt a stab of pain in his chest that had nothing to do with his various injuries. None of this was Jack's fault, and it was cruel of him to let the pirate bear a burden that he didn't deserve. Tentatively, the injured officer cracked his one good eye open. Just as he'd anticipated, the sun coming in through the window pierced his eye causing a new hurt to mingle with all of the others. He licked his lips, praying that his voice wouldn't fail . "M-Maybe in the future," God, it hurt to talk, "you should let me decide w-where we sail my ship."
Jack's head shot up, and he stared wide eyed at the officer. "Scotty?" he said, for once not bothering to argue over ownership of the Loyalty.
Prescott moved his lips into what he hoped looked like a reassuring smile, anything was preferable to speaking again.
He felt the pirate's hand tighten around his arm. Jack let out a breath that he seemed to have been holding for a long time. "I overheard the doctor sayin' ye were gone," he whispered, almost as though saying the words out loud might make them true.
The officer furrowed his brow. "I think I was," he said, whispering out of necessity.
Jack's black eyes narrowed. "You're going t'have t'explain that one," he said, the first hint of a smile coloring his face.
Prescott swallowed, trying to ignore the rawness in his throat. "I talked with my dead brother, and saw myself lying in bed," he rasped, leaving out the part about seeing Jack by the door.
"Long dark tunnel, bright white light and all, mate?" Jack teased, producing his all too familiar, much missed, Cheshire cat grin.
The older Captain smiled, remembering what Findley had said about the light at the end of the tunnel. "Maybe it was just a dream," he said. Then, suddenly, an idea came to him through his pain muddled thoughts. A way to find out if he'd really seen his little brother. "Can I ask you something?"
Jack nodded, shrugging.
"Did you have a brother?" Prescott asked haltingly, his voice starting to fail him.
A shadow descended over Jack's already dark eyes. The muscles in his jaw twitched. "Why?"
Prescott made a face that he hoped said "Please, just answer the question."
The pirate's gaze drifted towards the window. "I had a half-brother," he said, no emotion in his voice. "Why? Did ye see 'im in the tunnel too?"
The older officer shook his head, immediately regretting the action. His vision blurred. Patchy dark spots floated in front of his eyes. His head throbbed with renewed vitality leaving him feeling as though his skull was going to implode.
"No," the pirate went on, still staring out the window. "Ye wouldn't see me brother. If e's dead. He's in hell."
Even through his distorted vision, Prescott could see, from the expression on Jack's face, that he was reliving something from his past. Something that clearly still haunted the pirate. "I'm sorry," Prescott choked, the short sentence finally sapping all of his strength. His words degenerated into a coughing spasm.
The shadow disappeared from Jack's eyes. The black orbs were instantly wide, and full of concern, as Jack rose from his seat. "What's wrong?" he said.
Still coughing, Prescott could hardly answer the worried pirate. "Nothing … fine," he managed in between gasps. The pirate gently lifted his shipmate into a sitting position, in an effort to help him breathe easier. A gesture that would have helped a lot more, if Prescott's back hadn't been covered with barely healed cuts from Boothe's cat o' nine tails. Every place Jack's arm touched the bandages on his back seemed to explode, sending waves of pain coursing down his spine and out through his arm and legs. His vision darkened, and, though he fought fiercely to retain consciousness, he finally succumbed to the darkness.
88888
"Do you want me to come with you?" James asked, eyeing Anamaria with concern as she stood in front of Prescott's room, bracing herself.
Ana shook her head. "No," she said, smiling slightly. "I want to be alone with him, if it really is the last time …"
Norrington placed his hands on each of Ana's arms and stared intently into her amber eyes. "Don't say that," he said. "Don't even think like that."
Taking a deep breath, Ana slipped out of James' reach. Another breath, and she pushed open the door to Prescott's room, leaving Norrington standing outside. She knew he was worried about Prescott, and her, but she did need to see her brother alone. When she stepped inside of the room, a doctor was standing next to Prescott's bed. Stethoscope in his ears, he was gently setting the other end of the instrument on her brother's chest.
James had told her about finding Prescott on Boothe's ship. He said that Prescott's many injuries had seemed very serious. He also told her that her brother only escaped from Boothe by sawing off his own arm. No doubt, Norrington had been trying to prepare her for what she would see. Despite the Navy Captain's best efforts, nothing could have prepared Ana for seeing her brother lying in that bed. Prescott's face was hardly recognizable with one eye swollen shut and a bandage running up his jaw line. He did not look like the strong, dashing Captain. He looked, almost, helpless.
The doctor stood up, removed the stethoscope from his ears, and turned to Ana for the first time. She made no attempt to wipe away the tears that had begun to stream down her cheeks. "How is he, doctor?" she asked, her voice wavering.
The physician was an elderly man, who looked vaguely familiar. He had short white hair and sympathetic brown eyes. He licked his lips before replying. "Your brother has been hurt very badly," he started. "Judging by his injuries, I wouldn't expect him to survive." Ana gasped, clapping her hand over her mouth. She squeezed her eyes closed, forcing more tears to cascade down the sides of her face. "But …" the doctor smiled congenially. "That prognosis doesn't take into account the fact that your brother has a will to survive unlike any I've ever seen."
Ana's eyes popped open.
The doctor shoved his hands into his pockets, and looked back towards Prescott. "In my younger days, I was surgeon aboard the Dauntless. I remember a young lieutenant that also served on that ship. In the midst of a hopeless battle, this lieutenant took a bullet that had been aimed at Admiral Fornin's heart. He refused to let me treat his wound until the battle had ended." The man shook his head, smiling at Ana. "The battle raged for hours after he'd sustained that injury. He collapsed, dead on his feet, when the victory cheers finally sounded on deck. The Captain, himself, carried that young lieutenant down to the surgery. We'd given him up for dead. But, two weeks later he stood up on the quarterdeck and guided Dauntless into port."
Ana could picture Prescott, hands behind his back, shouting orders as the ship sailed into Kingston harbor. Her heart warmed, and she felt hopeful for the first time since she learned that Loyalty had turned up empty. But, she still couldn't stop crying.
Moving towards the door, the doctor paused laying a hand on Ana's shoulder. "My professional opinion isn't optimistic," he said. "But, if you wereask me for a personal opinion, I think he just may surprise us again."
"Thank you, Doctor." The old man waved away her thanks. "Is it okay if I sit with him for a while?"
The doctor nodded. "Just let him sleep for a while before you wake him."
Taking up a seat next to Prescott on the bed,Ana took his hand in her own, and began softly rubbing the back of his palm. The skin around his wrist was pink and raw. His knuckles were cut and scraped. His chest was covered with bruises so dark, than Ana almost didn't notice a tattoo. The letter "S" intertwined with a rose. Reaching out, Ana lightly traced the pattern. Her brother's breath suddenly hitched, and she hastiliy removed her hand. Staring intently at his face, Ana's eyes narrowed. "Prescott Tarret," she whispered. "Are you faking?"
A grin slowly spread across her brother's face. Mischief glimmered in his good eye.
"How long have you been awake?"
Prescott swallowed. "L-Long enough, t'hear quite a f-fairytale," he replied. His voice was gravelly and fraught with pain.
Ana's eyebrows came together in a mock scowl. "What do you mean, Sir," she said. "The lieutenant in thatstory is my brother, and he's a hero no matter how fervently he denies it." Prescott rolled his eye. The playful smile that had been on Ana's face faded. Her visage turned somber. "My God, Pres, I was so scared," she said, her voice made small by her fear.
Pulling his hand from her grasp, Prescott reached up to her shoulder. With a pain filled moan, he pulled himself up and wrapped his arm around his sister. She could feel his body trembling, and his breath coming in short, quick gasps. She could not comprehend the agony he must have felt, and still he was trying to comfort her.
Tears streamed out from her eyes with renewed vigor. Mindful of the bandages on his back, she firmly returned his embrace. No matter how much she wanted to just melt in the security of her older brother's arms, Ana brushed away her fear. Prescott had been tortured for days because he was trying to protect her. He had suffered enough. He had been strong long enough. He was the one who deserved comfort. With every fiber of her being, Ana willed her strength to go to Prescott. In doing so, she realized for the first time, that pain wasn't causing Prescott's shoulders to shake. He was crying. "It's okay, now, Pres," she whispered soothingly, stroking his hair. In over twenty years, she had never once seen Prescott break down. The world had fallen down around him so many times, and he had remained standing tall. Never once had he ever let himself feel helpless or lost.
Ana closed her eyes, as she continued to run her hands over Prescott's hair. A hatred stronger than any she had ever felt burned in her chest. Prescott was the best man she knew, and a worthless excuse for a pirate had nearly cost her brother his life. Years ago, at Admiral Fornin's ball, Prescott had promised to hunt Boothe down in the event of his escape. Well, now he would do so with his sister at his side. In that moment, Ana vowed that Boothe would pay for what he'd done.
Gradually, her brother seemed to accept Ana's comfort. By the time, she helped him to lay back down, she would have never known he had shed a single tear. "I'm so sorry, Pres," she said, quietly, her eyes drifting for the first time to her brother's missing arm. She felt a pang in her chest. "I know Boothe was looking for me.This wasall my fault."
"It usually is," Prescott rasped, a smile softening his words as he took his sister's hand in his own.
Ana grinned broadly. "You're enjoying the fact that I feel too guilty to slap you silly, aren't you?"
The injured officer gave a small nod.
A quiet knock at the door stopped the sibling's rapport. "Come in," Ana called.
The elderly doctor slipped in the door. "I'm sorry to interrupt," he said. "But your cousin asked me to tell you something."
Prescott's eyebrow rose, as he looked up at his sister. She had to remember to explain her ruse to him, as soon as he was well enough to join in her lie.
"Jack," Ana said out of the side of her mouth, hoping the one word explanationn would do for now. "What did he say?" she said, aloud.
"Loyalty is gone."
TBC
Alright, no reviews about me leaving you with an evil cliffy. Everyone is safe and well for the moment, so I won't hear any complaints (actually, I'll listen to any feedback)
I was so so so happy that you were all so outraged that I would even consider killing Prescott. Tell you the truth, I wasn't going to kill him, I just wanted to make you sweat a bit (yeah, that is a bit evil) Anyway, thank you so much for all the reviews. Please keep them coming!