Disclaimer:  I still don't own them, and will return them when I'm done . . .um . . .playing with them.  Promise.  (Note that condition upon return was not noted.)

AN:  First time writing or posting, though I've been reading fan fic for about two and a half years now, so please be kind.  Constructive criticism welcomed, suggestions welcomed (especially when concerning a better title), flames will be forwarded to Barbosa in that deepest circle of hell that Jack talked about unless they can be put to better use . . .

A Taste of Misery

Part 4

Jack curled on the floor at the back of his cell, drawing shuddering breath after shuddering breath into his lungs.  His entire body burned with agony, his head throbbing as if it would explode with each clenching of his heart.  He supposed that the beatings would only get worse tomorrow, as the guards knew that they would lose their play-toy to the gallows in two days.

He had entertained hopes for at least a reprieve from the beatings when Norrington gestured the boy out, but obviously the lad had a basic understanding of politics in a foreign garrison.  Commanders came and went—well, usually, though Norrington was obviously trying to make himself unique by staying put.  Getting in their good graces couldn't hurt, but to do that by betraying others of your rank—that was the kind of stunt that could keep a man from ever commanding a post, or, if he did command, could get him shot in the back by his own people.  It was suicide to alienate the common soldiers, especially if you were one of them.

So Jack Sparrow was dragged from his cell and blindfolded, ignoring the pain as his arms were bound and the noose again placed around his neck.  He thought he had managed to hold his head high for a full five minutes before he started to wear down, but the end result had been the same as in the afternoon.

He laughed, the sound coming out somewhere between a sob and a moan, at the thought that he was suffering and dying for a crime he hadn't committed—a crime that he had found horrendous when he heard about it.  Even bloody pirates didn't stoop that low . . .well, most bloody pirates . . .his bloody pirates . . .

He probably could have handled the torture part—the dying part was stretching it a bit—except for Will.

Will Turner . . .

The only son of Bootstrap Bill . . .

A man that Jack had dared to think of as a friend . . .

He had never had many true friends, and after the mutiny, his ability to trust people had dropped even lower.  He knew many people, had many acquaintances, but there were only four people that he considered true friends, four people that had snuck past his guard and into some portion of his heart that he hadn't managed to cauterize despite his lifestyle and his pledges.

Ana-Marie.  A woman who met him with a slap more often than not . . .and had been there with a blanket and his ship when he desperately needed both.

Gibbs.  A good, solid man, Jack was never sure why he had turned to piracy, but he was a welcome addition to the crew.  He added a counter-balance to Jack's swaggering semi-lunacy, and he was always good with a rum and an ear when the need arose.

Elizabeth Turner.  The one woman he had met more than once who hadn't slapped him . . .though, granted, she had been ready to try on several occasions.  She had tricked him . . .and burned the rum . . .but she hadn't laughed at his sentimentality, and to the best of his knowledge she had never told anyone exactly what happened that night, when his guard fell completely, not even Will.  He had been willing to fire that shot at Barbosa, knowing that it wouldn't kill the man, in an effort to save her life.  He sometimes felt the collateral for that rescue had been his own sanity—but Will had done what needed to be done, and an injury that couldn't kill the undead was fatal to the living.

William Turner.  Son of William "Bootstrap Bill" Turner, one of the finest men to ever sail the waters under any flag.  Jack had thought that Bootstrap betrayed him with the others in the mutiny, and hearing that hadn't been the case had eased his heart, though he felt a twinge of sympathy for the man who more than likely spent ten years in an undead hell deep underwater, most of them tied to a cannon, until the release of the curse brought him back to a cold, crushing, suffocating death.

Will was the kind of man that you met once in a lifetime, innocent but not naïve, gentle but still able to use force, a fine friend or a bitter enemy.  Once Will's idealism had started to wear off, Jack had found himself drawn to the young man and his cause, despite his best efforts to the contrary.  He had died for the man.

Unconsciously his uninjured hand slid down to the spot where the sword had pierced his chest, a journey that he knew intimately, entrance and exit, though it had left no scars.  Barbosa was right—once dead and under the curse, all pain, all sensation died.  He had felt that deathblow, though, felt the cold of the steel as it froze his heart.  He had covered well, grinning and flicking the cursed medallion along his fingers . . .but he would never forget that feeling, never, for as long as he lived.

Which might not be that much longer now.

He had died once for Will, and the lad had repaid him in full with his rescue at the gallows, making them even, and, Jack had thought, friends.

Remember your place, Will Turner.

I know my place.  It's right here, between you and Jack.

Now Will didn't even give him a chance to defend himself, not that he had been entirely coherent at the time, but shoot him for having a problem shrugging of the effects of a weeks worth of beatings . . .

He supposed that he should tell the Commodore what was happening, but he had seen the way Norrington looked at him earlier.  The man obviously regretted letting Jack go three years ago, and, if he believed the stories about Jade, then it was understandable.  Hell, if he had done it, he could even understand what the guards and Silverfirth were doing.

But he hadn't.

Still, if two men gave a perfect description of Jack and the Pearl, one of whom was at one time a Very Important Ransom Prospect at Port Jade, he could understand his guards believing that he was guilty.

What he didn't understand was why Silverfirth believed it was him in the first place.  It was utter madness.

This is either madness, or brilliance.

It's a fine line that can distinguish between the two.

Jack knew about madness.  He courted it, cloaked himself in it, used it as an ally.  He smiled to himself, remembering Will Turner doing his impression of the antics that Jack used to survive.  His questionable sanity led his enemies to underestimate him, and provided entertainment for his friends and crew in between raids.  The madness was harmless when he was in control, an added weapon in his bag of tricks.

And Jack was always in control.

During a firefight, when he was drunk, when he was fighting cursed undead pirates for control of his ship, he was always in control.  He always knew exactly what it was that he was trying to do, and had a rough understanding of how he planned to get there.  Granted, things often went wrong—such as ladies falling off forts and nearly drowning, or idiot boys allowing their hearts to dictate their actions—but he could deal with those problems when they arose.  Even when he awaited the gallows, he was in control, because he knew exactly what and why it was that he was waiting.

His control was slipping, though, had been slipping since that day—could it only be a month ago?—since the sighing of a perfectly balanced blade as it flew through the air and the unique crunch as it bit through human flesh had shown him that things could still go horribly wrong.

Now he realized how close to the brink he could truly drag himself, as his pretending grew teeth and bit down, a swirl of darkness that threatened to drag away all he had worked for, a blood-seeking monster that would stop of nothing, destroying all he held precious.

Not that he had anything precious left.

His crew had disappeared, and he didn't dare to ask what had happened for fear that he get an answer, truthful or otherwise, that would wreck what little control he did have.

Will believed him a monster.

Elizabeth would be too preoccupied now to worry about a pirate she hadn't seen since her wedding over two years ago.

Norrington would have his head for the slight that had been done his honor when Jack supposedly committed the atrocities at Port Jade.

With a whimper and a sob, Jack curled tighter around himself as though to ward off invisible blows as sleep came to claim him, the last few walls against the darkness crumbling into dust.