RED SKY

The drink held no taste. Food turned to ash in his mouth. For William Turner, he had become just as cursed as Barbossa and the crew of the Black Pearl had been. The world seemed to dull and lose its colors. Everything around him grew drab and ordinary, jaded and lost. Even the music, despite the fact that Will knew it was a light jig, might as well have been a lamenting dirge.

Barbossa had taken them straightaway to Tortuga, back to the ruined port and the only place they could seek refuge and supplies to regroup. At least, in Tortuga, there were no bounties upon their heads. They could relax in the buccaneer port, drink some ale, and partake to the finer things in life if so needed. Only there could they be free to breathe. The captain had hoped Tortuga's life would invigorate his men, but, at the loss of Jack, the compass, and trust in Elizabeth Swann, his crew could not be so roused.

Will sat at what had become a makeshift tavern of sorts where the old tavern had once been. Barrels and kegs had been rolled out, both full and dry, to serve as stools and tables. Boards where thrown out across some of them to create an actual bar of sorts and shelving. The old girls ran it out of charity now, giving kindness, sweet thoughts, gentle touches, and flowing spirits to whoever sat down and asked for it. Will knew the girls would get back to their old ways sooner or later, but, until then, he could drown his sorrows in pint after pint of "All Sorts."

The band gayly played on in a corner of the remaining foundation. Their tunes lilted and danced as those who could dance dared to sway and step lightly. It was the first time the people only chatted and danced in the tavern instead of fighting.

Will couldn't notice. First, his fiance lied and betrayed him. Then, she ran away. No one had seen hide nor hair of Elizabeth since they fled Port Royal, still giving chase to the Dutchman. She had disappeared, somehow managing to slip away in one of the boats. Will wondered what she had been plotting, but he fought hard to not care about her. Still, Will worried for her.

Barbossa slapped him jokingly on the shoulder. "Give 'er time, Mr. Turner. She'll figure things out in 'er own sort."

"That's why I'm afraid of."

xxxx

He waited, hanging there in the dark, dank hold of the brigantine, Herald Mark swaying with each passing wave. The chains that held him aloft jingled slightly with the pitch of the ship. The pirate's wrists were raw and angry from the rubbing of the irons against his flesh, from the weight bearing down. Jack was too weak to even fight it anymore, to even try to hold himself up. His head hung down against his chest.

Jack absently wondered how long he'd been down there, just hanging around limply. No light lit the hold, save the pale glimmer of the deck prisms, sunk into the planks above. The noises above hardly ever changed, as the men under Beckett's command never gave way in their activity to even nightfall. It could have been hours, but, judging from the pangs of hunger in his stomach and the exhaustion in his body, Jack thought it was more like days. If he was left alone, there was a good chance they knew nothing about the island.

Still, when Lord Cutler Beckett descended into the hold, Jack's heart fell. Beckett's face, illuminated by the oil lantern in his hand, held a macabre delight at the pirate captain's suffering. Beckett knew Jack had seen the island, and would take great pleasure in securing the information he needed.

The flame in the lamp burnt brightly in one hand, while the other held a glass filled with some liquid. Beckett held the glass lightly, teasing his captive, running a finger along the delicate rim. Jack hadn't been allowed to eat nor drink anything since his capture, however long ago that had been, and Beckett knew the power he held over the pirate just by holding the drink. The snooty little man just savored every moment of it, of the desire and yearning clearly in Jack's face.

"I would have to bet that you are feeling just a wee bit thirsty now, aren't you?" Beckett spoke with a casual ferocity, playing his hand well.

Jack's parched throat struggled to work. "Aye. A bit."

Beckett held the glass up to Jack's lips, allowing him to drink but a sip. The alcohol warmed the captive man's throat and mouth sweetly, with but a peppery aftertaste. Red wine. Jack had been hoping for rum, but wine would do. As long as it wasn't the poison Sparrow had initially been expecting.

"Thanks, mate."

Beckett gave a curt nod and sat down on a trunk, regarding his captive coolly. "Are you ready to sing me a song, Sparrow?"

"That all depends on what tune ye fancy," Jack quipped as he tried to summon his almost trade marked wit. "What song will ye have?"

"Since you managed to squander my heart, sing me a pretty little song about an island." Beckett leaned forward slightly as he crooned the words, satisfaction flaring in his face as he saw the horror in Jack's. "Sing us a song, little sparrow, about the heart or of a pretty little island, cloaked by a veil of fog and mist. An island of gold and jewels..." The noble paused, as if for effect. "An island, inhabited only by women, where even Death himself sits idly by."

Jack feigned ignorance, but it was too late. "I know no such song."

Cutler Beckett's fist collided with Jack's head before his dazed mind could even register that the noble man of the East Indian Company had left his seat. A thin stream of blood trickled down from his temple, from the cut the blow had delivered. Jack's mind reeled for a moment from the strike.

"Sing about the island."

Jack shook his dizzy head, despite knowing that he'd already told Beckett once of the island and the myth. "Can't say I've ever heard o' it."

Beckett hit him again, harder, splitting the pirate's lower lip. Coppery blood splashed in Jack's mouth. But the captain ignored it as best he could, pausing to spit his own blood back at Beckett. Cutler merely stepped back, away from it. He avoided it so easily and almost gracefully.

"So, my sparrow will not sing?" The so-called gentleman chirped.

Unbidden, the mental image of Elizabeth flashed in Jack's mind. Elizabeth, who had saved him from Commodore Norrington. Elizabeth, who had kissed him so passionately. Elizabeth, who had betrayed him, who left him to die, chained to the main mast of the Black Pearl to be left as bait for the kraken. But, this was none of the false faces of Elizabeth Swann. This was not the image of the noble woman, the wife to be, the lying whore. It was the image of her smiling, dancing with him on the beach of that godforsaken spit of land, singing before she conjured the idea to burn the rum. It was the Elizabeth that Jack always had a soft spot for.

"And really bad eggs..." Jack murmured. "Drink up me hearties, yo ho. Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me."

Beckett chuckled. "Oh, how clever, Sparrow." Jack thought he heard the rasping of steel, of metal against metal. "I think we can teach you to sing the right tune, yet."

"How about a dirge?" Jack offered mockingly.

The movement was so swift, his eyes couldn't focus on Cutler. The next thing, Jack knew, cold steel plunged through his upper chest. Sparrow gasped, with a sharp intake of suddenly freezing air. The metal drove with both a hot and cold oath, somehow, at the same time. Beckett sent it into Jack, right up to the hilt, just under the pirate's left shoulder. Sparrow's arm tensed as the muscles contracted in excruciating pain. His weight, hanging on the injured shoulder, sent lightning flashes of pain through Jack. Beckett just left the blade there, rubbing against Jack's flesh, cutting his muscle with each rock of the ship and sway of his body. Every subtle shift of the pirate's weight sent whole new pain through him. Jack let his head hang back, staring up into the darkness of the hold, panting heavily. Sparrow gritted his teeth, trying to push past the agony, fighting to stay conscious.

'Focus, Jack, ol' boy, Focus,' he told himself.

Blood. It was the first thing that came to mind when the pirate tried to think clearly. He thought of the warm liquid squeezed out of the wound between his skin and the warming metal of the dagger. A thin stream had managed to ebb out and down his chest, chilling it as rolled down his skin.

Jack forced out a hideously pained laugh. "That's interesting."

Beckett poked at the blade embedded in Sparrow's shoulder. He took such great delight in moving the dagger, watching Jack's face twist and contort into horrific grimaces under only to most delicate of touches. Still, the pirate refused to scream; he merely clenched his jaw shut tighter and resisted the urge to cry out.

"Sing for me, Sparrow," Beckett begged.

Jack grinned weakly. "Oh give me a life that's lived out on the sea, yo ho and a-"

But, Beckett had grown tired of that joke already. He grabbed the dagger in Jack's flesh and gave it a sharp, harsh twist. Sparrow winced.

"Still not the right tune, little sparrow."

Despite his anger and rage, Beckett rather seemed to be enjoying this whole, messy affair. Jack could see it, the macabre and sadistic glee in the supposed noble man's eyes. Cutler loved every moment of his captive's suffering. Those dark eyes sparkled and twinkled as Jack's blood pattered on the wood floor of the hold, mixing with some sea water that had pooled down there, swirling this way and that. Beckett took great pleasure from the torture of Captain Jack Sparrow.

"Still do not wish to tell me all your dirty little secrets?" Beckett asked softly. "Perhaps I should let you think about it harder."

And, with that being said, the man spun around on his heel, his shoes giving a slight, eerie rasp against the wood. Beckett left Hack there, still chained, still swaying. His blade remained deep in Jack's upper chest, just below the shoulder, ever cutting, always sending up new waves of suffering through him. No food. No water or drink save that one sip of wine. Bleeding to death. But, before that, Jack Sparrow would die of thirst, not long from then at all.

Not long, at all.

xxxx

Calico Jack Rackham and his darling bride, Anne, had been too kind to them, in Elizabeth's opinion. They'd been swift to scurry the two women away from Port Royal, hiding them from the British Royal Navy. As soon as Sygne said Jack had sent her, the captain of the Revenge treated the two like princess or ladies of the court. Apparently, the crew of the Revenge had rather liked Jack Sparrow and his tales of intrigue, after having saved him a few times from his own traps. Calico Jack had been good friends with Sparrow, and Anne seemed to have been better friends in a manner of speaking.

Anne took an immediately liking to Sygne, but the warrior remained distant from the whole crew. She seemed to be forever listening to the horizon for something. Elizabeth wondered what the warrior heard.

"What's the bearin'?" Calico Jack inquired of Elizabeth.

The woman sighed. "Tortuga. Please. Will'll be waiting for me in Tortuga."

Calico Jack nodded. "Aye, Tortuga it is, 'en."