The old violation of the brand throbbed in hated rememberance as Jack scowled down at the charred letter adorning his wrist. He had expected the brand to burn flesh, and hurt, not ache like dead flesh that was seared beyond feeling. Beckett's own fingers strayed over his own back with a grimace, running his hand over the dulled, raised lines of the nearly two-foot scar. He had only seen it once, after the bleeding had stopped, and it was a rather skillful rendition of a bird in flight, the wings delicately arched, the sun at the avian's back. It was a violation of a magnitude that Beckett had not felt before or sense.
The minute flinch made Jack inwardly smirk in satisfaction. It was the one and only time that he had ever engaged in the torture of a another human being, and Beckett was the only man Jack had ever met who truly earned that mocking mar against his flesh. He graced his own palm over his seared wrist. It was a bitter reconciliation, as well, to merge the inocent privateer who had earnestly believed his initial transport was nothing more than delivering inocent goods across the water. The brand has become an identity, then a label,
and then a shackle that Jack found he could never free himself from. He had seen the sliding hatred glowering in so many eyes when they looked at the hated "P." p for prisoner, p for penance, p for pirate...Jack had considered the one scar that defined his existance to be the one that he had ernestly never intended to earn.

Beckett's sigh of inpatience drew Jack's attention back to the rich bedchambers.

Ruefully, Jack tipped his head back with a rolling of his shoulders, the loud pop of bone against linen all the louder for the cavernous silence that had suddenly fallen around him.
Beckett was eying him with prim irritation, eyes sliding nearly shut as he mentally calculated all aspects of this new situation, and how he could use it to his advantage. Beckett rose from his bed, and after casting Jack a siddled glare, paused to drape and belt his silken robe over his night clothing. Sighing with a grand show of patience, Beckett calmly lay two glasses on the mahogony table, and then poured the wine with another elegant sneer.

"You will forgive me if the liquor at hand is unlike the swine's swill that you undoubtably consume until you are oblivious, Captain Sparrow."

Jack smirked as he slid back into the opposite chair and lay his bootheels on the table.
Ignoring the small glass, he opted for the bottle and tilted it in salute to Beckett as he helped himself to a long-awaited swig, and then grimaced in distaste.

"And you will forgive me if I consider swine's swill to be a bit more stout than this pig's urine that you consider to be a fine drink, mate. I've had bilge water that's got more taste. The necessity of social lubrication aside, I suggest we move on to the more..pressing matters at hand, shall we?"

Beckett raised an eyebrow as he sippped the eyes narrowed over the rim of his glass as he carefully set the wine down, and paused, nonplussed.

"It would be odd for a desolute pirate to board my ship with the rather benign intentions of a friendly chat."

Jack smirked merrily. "Aye, long odds for that to happen, given our dubious history. We've had many glorious chats, mate. It wasn't my fault that they were less than friendly."Jack's voice darkened as he stared levelly at Beckett.

"My intutition tells me that there's little point in politely venturing an inquiry as to why Davy Jones saw fit to board the Pearl. And judging from your lack of reaction of seeing me bones in the moonlight, you know of the curse. The odd thing is, that these entirely seperate events have only your prissy little meddling in common. I'd like an explanation as to why."

The last word ended in a nearly gutural purr as Jack waltzed back into the moonlight and allowed the silver arch to wash over his undead flesh again.

Beckett shivered at the macabre sight, and forced back the outward shudder as he offered Jack a polite, condensending smile.

"Allow me to point out a few facts that you may have overlooked in attempting to cobble together completely random events into some cohesive explanation, Mr. Sparrow. Captain Jones is a rather unpredictable, and volital individual whose little aquatic pet has enough strength to sink ships at his whim. Do you think it wise for the East India Trading Company to have dealings with such as that?"

Jack squinted, turning that information over, as Beckett crisply continued, "As for my knowledge of the curse, , rest assured that my knowing of it, or how it works is hardly unique, or even noteworthy. The tales of the battle between you and Barbossa are well-known throughout the ocean.
While I normally do not pay attention to the sordid gossip coming from drunken wrecks who've poisoned what little sense they've left, the fact that you appear before me as bones in the moonlight are credence enough to know the curse is real."

Jack scowled at that, and looked down at his bones, with a resigned shrug. "Well, when you put it that way, it is a bit obvious......"

Beckett only allowed a cold little smile.

"Rest assured, Mr. Sparrow, that I will satisfy your curiosity as to where I garnered my information.
I believe you will recall a former crewmate you had in your employ...the woman named Anamaria?"