"Show him no mercy," Jack said, his voice low and foreboding, smiling widely, wickedly, the gold in his teeth glinting from the firelight. "Guarantee no hope for life. Fetch bonds! An anchor!" he growled.

The flames from the firelight crafted dark shadows on Jack's face, making him appear all the more threatening as he up the corners of his mustache then palmed his chin thoughtfully. Jack then cleared his throat, breaking into the next character.

"But he's only a boy!" Jack exclaimed, drawing his voice up high.

Etta couldn't help but giggle, interrupting the story time, and Jack's mouth quirked to the side before he schooled his expression to feign insult.

"You find it funny the boy is to die, girl?" Jack tutted at her then muttered an aside. "No one is loyal these days."

"No!" Etta piped up, pulling her blanket up to her neck momentarily then kicking it forward, adjusting in her seated place by the fire. "I'm listening, honest. Do go on."

"Just seeing which side you're on." Jack narrowed his eyes at her playfully.

"Oh, of course I'm with him." She assured. "Next! What happened next?"

"Exactly as Fortune Red instructed. Members of the crew tied the boy to an anchor and he was set to walk the plank," Jack continued, emphasizing the last dismal words by dropping his voice low once again and using the straw dolls he fashioned for Etta to demonstrate the action.

"He can't die! It's a bedtime story," she said through a yawn, scrubbing at her eyes. "Everything has to be righted in the end or I'll have a bad dream."

"Can't be having that." Jack pulled a face, his mouth drawing into a line at the thought of being woken up in the middle of the night by a shake of his shoulder. "But worry not." He held both of his index fingers. "The boy was clever, you see. He knew a thing or two about sailor's knots from his father he did. As a crew member walked him backwards off the plank, his hands worked fast and, admittedly, a little fumbled. But no matter—Once at the edge, threatened by the sword, he fell back, the anchor catching on the plank. He was left hanging upside-down."

"Like a fish from a hook," Etta chimed in.

"Like a fish from a hook," he echoed, winking at her. "All that was left then was to heave himself up and untie his feet. He freed himself, swinging from the rope. Outraged, Red commanded one of his lackies to cut the tie, and the boy fell down, down, down." Jack set Etta's dolls aside to fan his fingers out as he made a splashing sound. "But the boy was no stranger to a long swim. His arms grew tired but he kept moving forward, following the distant shoreline. He pulled himself upon land. The island was barren but beautiful. A promise. The boy hoped to find a new game, perhaps treasure, but certainly just the right amount,"—Jack held his hand up, his forefinger and thumb an inch apart—"of mischief."

Etta clapped her hands, not allowing a moment's hesitation after the story's resolve and Jack—sitting cross-legged across from her—gestured his arm in circles before himself grandly then leaned forward, evoking a bow. He performatively waved her off when she carried on applauding, adding in a few cheers at the end. Through one of her cheers, Etta yawned once again, and then came her fists wiping at her eyes. Yes, she was done in.

Etta crawled into Jack's lap and she took the offered doll from his hands, blinking her eyes closed as Jack smoothed a hand over her hair and hummed comfortingly.

"I'm glad the boy lived," Etta murmured after a few cycles of the same melody.

Jack's mouth pulled up in a thoughtful smile. "Me too."

"You never tell me his name," she said. "Hasn't he got a name? Everyone has a name. He ought to have a name."

"What do you think it is?"

Etta hummed thoughtfully, blinking her eyes open for a moment only to close them once more. She nestled deeper into Jack's arms, sighing.

"I'm too tired to think of one."

He laughed. "Fair."

Jack stood, carrying Etta into their latest fashioned home. He pressed a kiss into her hair and tucked his blanket around her small form, hers left sandy on the beach. With his hand still resting atop her head, Jack wondered if he should ever tell Etta the boy grew to become a pirate, then a former pirate, and his true name.

.

When Jack came into some money, he decided to take Etta to Port Royal, believing five years enough time to go unnoticed. He was sure the scenery looked a bit different now, and he did as well.

Jack took Etta to a bakery, thinking to spoil her. He rested a hand on the top of her head as she pressed her hands against the glass casing and marveled at the treats that were much too sweet for a worthwhile breakfast.

As Etta took her time choosing, Jack met eyes with the woman behind the counter and she smiled at him the kind of smile he hadn't seen in a while, the kind that holds the hint of a beginning of a kind of longing. When her eyes fell to look upon Etta, her soft features shone with an even wider smile, showing her teeth. She brushed black curling tendrils of hair from her eyes and Jack returned his attention to Etta, ducking down at her level before his brain could work itself into a proposition of trouble.

"Have you decided, Little Dove?"

Etta looked up to Jack, nodding, her eyes alight with excitement. "The lemon curd one! Please," she added, a rushed afterthought.

Jack ordered the dessert for Etta and a tea as well. He nodded in thanks at the woman as she handed him the tea set and he gingerly passed the cup along to Etta. She thanked him and walked to the door, staring at the townspeople milling about the street, trading and working and barely making it by, but Jack was sure in her eyes all she saw was "big people" and the fresh start of a day. For that, he was glad. Jack wouldn't let Etta want for a single thing, and he wouldn't let this world dull her wonder.

Watching Etta sip out of the tea set with care as not to drop it, Jack couldn't help but think of her mother. Etta was such a polite, darling girl, however, not passive and meek but inquisitive and headstrong even at so young. Elizabeth would be proud.

The baker's voice pulled Jack from his thoughts, visions of Elizabeth, her voice loud enough to alert him but with a natural tenderness in her voice, her lilting Irish accent, that didn't jar the calm morning.

"One lemon curd tartlet for the lovely little lady."

Jack gave her a closed-mouth smile in thanks.

"Lucky girl. She got your eyes," the woman murmured, flirtation in her voice, but the comment stilled Jack for an entirely different reason.

Oh no, she's not—Yes, she's mine, but—

Jack turned his head to look at Etta, his fosterling who he often had to remind himself wasn't his own by blood. The two of them, thick as thieves. "Too kind," he settled on.

Jack spoke the words while facing away from the baker to avoid her seeing his gold teeth. It was a right and honest morning. He didn't want to taint it by watching the woman's intrigue color into wariness at the sight of his golden teeth, a tell-tale sign of his past of pirating, as he had seen women do before. He missed his old look, his carefully calculated mask that managed to respectively deflect and welcome in certain types of women all on its own.

When Etta noticed Jack's eyes on her, she hastened forward and leaned into his side, holding his leg. Jack returned the empty tea set and offered a wave to the baker before turning to be on their way.

"Come on," he whispered to Etta when she stalled, still entranced by the glass casing of treats. Jack's voice sounded as if it came from elsewhere, outside of himself, far off at sea with the Flying Dutchman.

No, those eyes belonged to someone else entirely.

.

Jack sat with Etta on an empty dock in the dockyard, and when Etta insisted for the third time he try the treat that was intended for her, he relented. She seemed pleased with herself at her own politeness. Jack handed Etta the storybook he bought on their way to the dock and he took a few steps back, keeping a watchful eye on her as he let his mind travel years back.

They weren't far from where Jack rescued Elizabeth all that time ago. He watched Etta read the storybook and smiled, envisioning Elizabeth reading it to her on the dock instead.

"Oi!"

Jack turned in the direction of the voice. "Hello."

"Never seen you around before."

"Not from here."

The man wore a knowing expression, pointing to his own teeth then gesturing to Jack, noticing the glint of gold in his teeth.

"Used to be a seadog?"

"A lifetime ago," Jack answered, his voice guarded.

"Don't want nothing from you except conversation," he assured, clearly invigorated by the prospect of meeting another former pirate. Jack reasoned the man should revisit slums and drinking dens, places that were bound to be crawling with them. "We're all choosing different lives. Or dying out. Even the Greats are off to the Locker."

"'The Greats?'"

"The Lords. Mistress Ching lost to a typhoon. Chevalle to the guillotine. And Captain Jack Sparrow, well, no one knows what exactly happened to him, but no one's spotted him in years. We all wager he died."

"Poor fellow," Jack answered, his eyebrows drawing together in feigned sympathy.

"Some say he died trying to find the Fountain of Youth. Some say he died with a smile on his face in Tortuga. Some say he died squaring off with Davy Jones. I find that the hardest to believe," the man said conspiratorially.

"Why's that?"

"Don't believe in Jones, although a mate said he saw him from a distance himself recently. An out-right lie. Described him as a long-limbed fellow and not fish-like at all."

"No, doesn't sound like Jones at all," Jack reasoned.

William, he thought, fighting off a smile.

The man studied Jack for a moment, then crossed his arms in front of his chest. "When did you hang up your hanger?"

Jack nodded his head towards where Etta sat reading. "Five years ago."

"Ah. A fulfilled man." He nodded, then shared silence with Jack for a moment, which Jack appreciated. The moment was fleeting, however. "What do you wager happened to Sparrow?"

Jack palmed at his chin. "Hard to say. He was taken with that Pirate King, right? Perhaps, somewhere, he's off with her still, up to all sorts of plotting and pillaging. But who's to say?" Jack turned and smiled, it not quite reaching his eyes. "All just what-if's, mate."

There was a knowing look on the man's face as he answered, and Jack wondered if perhaps he played a fool simply to hear a desired ending from the man himself. Jack didn't care either way, as he agreed with the next words.

"Aye, but quite the ending you got there."

.

Etta rested atop Jack's chest on a lazy afternoon, notably quiet for her.

"Oi, what are you thinking of, Little Dove?"

"Nothing."

Jack pulled his mouth to the side. He would work it out of her eventually.

Etta tipped her head up. "Why do you call me that?"

"'Little Dove?'"

Etta nodded against Jack's chest.

"Doves are messengers of the afterlife, you know. You're what I've got left of my dear friend, Lizzie."

Etta nestled her cheek against Jack's chest once more and after a while felt his shirtfront grow wet. She hid her face fully in his chest, her fists balling up the fabric of his shirtfront.

"I miss her," she admitted in a shaking voice. "I don't know her and I miss her."

Jack scooped Etta up and held her close, swaying from side-to-side with a hand resting on the back of her head. He didn't shush her or offer insightful words, just held her as long as she needed. When she finally came down, wiping at puffy eyes, he finally spoke.

"Don't you see? That's why I call you 'Little Dove,' because she lives through you. In every smile, in every song, in every,"—Jack took Etta gently by the shoulders and brushed his nose along hers—"joke you make of me!" He laughed with her for a moment then schooled his expression then reiterated his point. "She lives through you, Etta."

Etta scrubbed at her eyes then heaved a sigh, breathing easier.

"Tell me a story? About her," she requested in a soft voice, and Jack couldn't say no to those eyes.

Jack started with his first memory of Elizabeth, pointedly leaving out why he happened to be at the docks and the aftermath of it all but left in the best bit, the whole meeting her by saving her life bit. Etta was pleased with the story, her eyes now dry.

"Another! Please?"

"Another? For another day," Jack said, and he shared her disappointment. But to tell another story would be to tell of piracy. He wasn't sure she was ready yet. He wasn't sure he was either.

.

"Abandon ship!" Etta screamed at the top of her lungs, running.

They were searching for buried treasure when things went awfully wrong. Jack followed close behind Etta to catch her, thinking he would rather like to catch time itself then stop it. Six, the girl was already six.

"Into the longboat with you," he said, scooping Etta into the air then dipping her down quick, nearly resting her to the ground as if setting her off to sea. Etta shouted, the sound elated, no doubt feeling the rush of butterflies in her stomach one gets from the sensation of a quick swoop in the air. Jack lifted her up once again to perch her atop his shoulders, taking long, exaggerated steps through the sand and relishing the moments when the sea water briefly met land, cooling his skin.

"If pirates are so terrible, why do we play them?" Etta asked.

"Pirates aren't terrible. They're dangerous," Jack corrected. "I've met a handful of pirates I've even liked in my day."

"Did they try to kill you?" Etta asked, a silvery wonder in her voice that made Jack smile.

"Oh, they did," he said nonchalantly. "And I spited some for it. Couldn't blame others."

Etta was quiet for a moment, then Jack heard above him, "No way."

"No way what?"

"No way you actually met," Etta put emphasis on the next word, "pirates."

Jack lifted Etta from his shoulders, placing her back on the sand before him. "Think old Jack would lie to you?" He tipped Etta's chin up after she shook her head. "Good. Then why not believe?"

"Because you've warned me of them."

"How are warnings formed if not by experiences?"

Jack lowered himself to Etta's level.

"What's the closest one got to killing you?" Etta crossed her arms in front of her chest, still skeptical.

"Ah." The corners of Jack's mouth pulled up in a smile. He crossed his legs and Etta followed suit, sitting across from him. "The most beautiful pirate I ever met nearly got me. She chained me to a ship that was destined to sink."

Etta's eyes lit up. "There are girl pirates?"

"All kinds." Jack nodded.

"The 'most beautiful pirate,'" Etta imitated Jack and his mouth dropped open at the muddled accent. She was too good at that. "You fancied her." She stuck her tongue out, disgusted by the thought.

"Did not."

"Did so."

"Did not!"

"Did so!"

"The last one to that tree is an undead monkey," Jack said in a rush.

He leapt to his feet and raced towards the palm tree and Etta scrambled after. He looked back, slowing his footfalls, and when she gently pushed him, feigned a ridiculously slow trip while Etta touched the tree then cheered, basking in her win.

"How could you, Etta? Your own caretaker? How could you? What a cruel, cruel world this is! Continually bested… by conniving… young ladies! Oh, it's the Locker for me, it's the Locker for me, surely." Jack peeked an eye open at Etta, grinning at the sight of her giggling at his antics, holding her sides.

Etta stepped forward, pulling Jack's hand from resting at his forehead, and he did not deny her comment that he had to be "the silliest man in the whole wide world."

.

As much as Jack loved Etta, she was at times admittedly, like her mother before her, well, a nuisance. She insisted on watching him hand fish that day and was asking all kinds of questions from her spot in the sand as Jack was trying to focus. They already went through the kinds of fish in this area of the sea, that a group of fish are called a "school," and no, a person could not turn into a fish—Jack decidedly omitting Davy Jones and his crew from the conversation as his eyes scanned the water, focused.

"I wonder if fish have names. If I were to name a fish, I would name him Gus if he was green. Green Gus. Isn't that a good name? And if he were blue, Blue Benedict. But suppose it were a girl fish—"

"Etta, it's awful hard to concentrate with all the fish questions," Jack said, diving for a fish and making an exasperated noise when he missed it.

"Okay." Etta sat quietly for a moment only to break the silence after a few beats. "Then I'll ask other questions. If you and Mum were such close friends, then what was her favorite color?"

"Don't believe she ever told me."

She gasped. "How can you be friends with someone and not know their favorite color? Mine's yellow."

Jack tried again and muttered a "yes" at his catch, too focused to sound triumphant. He wrestled the devil into a basket then returned to the shallow, rocky waters for another go at it.

"What's your favorite color, Papa?"

"Call me 'Jack,' love."

"What's your favorite color, Jack-love?" she asked, sounding pleased with her cleverness.

"Don't have one," Jack said, reaching forward for his next catch.

"You have to have a favorite color. Everyone has a—"

Etta screamed when Jack's arms shot from the water, bitten by a snake. Jack cast the snake back into the water then grabbed at his arm. He sat next to Etta, pushing back the sleeve of his shirt all the way. He looked over the bite, more jarred by Etta's scream than the bite itself. He didn't get a good look at the snake, so all he had left to do was wait, gage any symptoms, and hope it wasn't venomous. Jack felt Etta staring at him, and he met her gaze, then followed her eyes to the pirate brand on his arm.

Etta stood, tears welling in her eyes, shaking her head at him. She shared no words before running back towards their campsite. Jack spoke her name but she didn't stop. After a long enough while with no symptoms, Jack returned to hand fishing, the silence now unwelcomed.

That evening, Jack found Etta curled into herself atop a rock.

"A growing girl needs her dinner."

"I don't want to grow. I want to remain small. Small enough for no one to ever find me. Especially a lying, silly man with a funny walk," she muttered, pulling her arms closer in on herself.

"'Silly' I can take, but I draw the line at 'funny walk.'" Jack paused. "And as for lying that's all a matter of perspective—"

"You left out the truth. Might as well be a lie. If I were to do it, you would call it so." Etta turned to face Jack, more tears in her eyes. "You lied."

"I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to become scared of me—"

"I could never be scared of you," Etta whispered, the amount of trust in her voice a wonder to Jack's ears, an amount of trust he never knew was felt for him until that moment. Etta wiped at the tear tracks on her face with her sleeve then crossed her arms once more.

"Even so, I knew you wouldn't like me being a pirate."

"That's not it at all." There was not a trace of judgement was in Etta's eyes, just remnants of momentary hurt.

Jack stepped forward. "You mean you truly aren't scared?"

"You? Scary?" Etta looked Jack over and he wondered if he should be insulted. "You're a silly man not a scary man." Etta patted the spot next to her on the rock like he would to her, and Jack sat cross-legged beside her. "I was upset that you didn't tell me, not because you were a pirate. It's actually rather exciting," she admitted in a soft voice.

Jack tipped her chin up. "I have a lot of stories saved up, you know. If you come to dinner, I'll tell you them. The best ones involve someone you'll appreciate hearing about."

"Mum?"

Jack nodded and Etta wrapped her arms around Jack's middle, living in the embrace for a while before pulling back suddenly to look up at him.

"The boy from the stories!" Etta chirped. "You never told me his name."

"What do you think it is?" Jack asked in the same manner he did a few years ago.

She shook her head at him, wearing a knowing smile. "It's got to be no other than Jack Sparrow."

"Clever girl." Jack grinned at her, showing his gold teeth.