My notes: I went up north to our cabin for a little while which is why I
didn't update for so long - but thanks ya'll! Came back and there's eight
insightful reviews for about a week's time - honestly, when I wrote an
Artemis Fowl fanficlet all I got was three reviews for two entire months.
Back to the storyline:
"I never thought life on a ship would be so utterly boring," Meg muttered. She had resumed her seat at the very bow of the Black Pearl, her spine ramrod straight and her ankles crossed demurely, and in this place, ridiculously.
It was high noon on the second day that she had been on the Black Pearl. The sun beat down wickedly at her steely back, that willowy figure in the fawn gown, the salty breezes toying mischievously with her already ragged golden chignon.
She could feel herself swooning slightly, she pursed her lips and managed to make herself look exceedingly ugly, but at least she wasn't sick. She was a noble lady -or almost one anyways- and she would act like one. It was odd - when she was in the proper place to be a noble lady she didn't want to be one, and then onboard this filthy ship she did.
Meg narrowed her hazel eyes to catlike, razor-thin slits. "I hate this place!" she burst out savagely at the sea, jerking at the coarse ropes that bound her in place. Oh yes, the ropes. Early that morning, when she had awoken on the very side of the ship's deck, where she had gingerly spent the night, she had chosen this very spot to, ah, make her quarters, rather to the annoyance of the sailors. "Wot if she falls off?" Nicholson had growled at Ana Maria. "I'm starting to get a conscience and it ain't nice. Mebbe it's 'cos she's a perdy little thing."
To this Ana Maria had seized the ropes and bound Megaera Alix in her seat. "You won't fall off," she told the shocked girl as explanation, then turned on her heel and snapped at Nicholson. "There, you happy?"
Meg squirmed harder. This place was as coarse as the ropes, vile and filthy and nasty. she was so wrapped up in hormonal, indignant thoughts that she almost failed to notice the familiar face that appeared around the spokes of the oaken wheel.
"Need a little help?" asked Captain Jack Sparrow delicately, sidling out from behind the steering appendage. "Ana Maria has -ah, strong hands when it comes to certain things."
If it hadn't been for the ropes, Meg would have fallen off the side in shock. "I'm fine, thank you," she managed coolly, stopping her wriggling immediately.
Jack inclined his head, raised his eyebrows, and ignored her, slipping forward to fiddle with the knots of her bindings.
Meg had a sudden urge to bite him; it didn't matter where, but she reasoned that he would probably taste awful. Besides, she really wanted to get out of these stupid -she twitched reflexively- ropes!
"There ye are, lass," said Jack approvingly, taking her hand and pulling her up before she realized what he was grabbing her hand for. This time it was she who inclined her head, however slightly (in thanks) - and immediately turned on the heel of her slipper and picked up the hated ropes, flinging them out at the equally detested seas below.
A rough hand snaked out and caught the cordage in mid-air. "Now, now," said Jack's sarcastic tones, "there's no need to go wasting good rope."
Meg opened her mouth to say something, anything, couldn't think of a single word and spun on her heel for the second time in so many moments and stalked off, crimson tinges spreading rapidly across her face. Stupid -she thought bitterly -pirates-
Stupid -stupid -stupid! she raged silently -mast-sails-captain-deck-ship!- pirates-stairs-doors-hallways (as she passed by each of these things they passed through her anti-nautical mind) until finally she came to an open door. Suddenly tired (silent temper tantrums can do that to a person); she poked her head around the doorway.
It was a room that she had never seen the likes of before. Large cabinets obscured the better part of it, several dirty dishes were flung everywhere, and there was a large basin in the middle of it all, filled with water, where a teenager was working steadily away with a rag.
He had sandy-brown hair, freckles, a willing air and the look of a shy person about him. Encouraged, Meg slipped in and observed more closely. He appeared to be scrubbing away at dishes.
He noticed something and looked up, straight at her. With a loud clang, he dropped the dish back into the basin (this was accompanied with a loud splash and jets of water sent everywhere) and jumped back. "Holy Mary mother of God," he blurted, brown deer's eyes wide with shock. "Who're you and what're you doing here?"
Well that's a lovely greeting, thought Meg wryly. "My name's Meg and I was kidnapped by Mr. Cotton and since I know too much I can't go back," she explained, grinning slightly at him. He didn't seem like a pirate at all.
The boy eyed her dubiously. After all, it was a rather suspicious story. "Are you sure you're not just another one of the captain's wenches?" he asked, which really told one about the ship's manner - even the shyest one of them all was well informed of such. things.
Meg turned scarlet from several different emotions. "Of course not!" she said furiously. Then she thought of Jack Sparrow, his strutting walk and carefree air, and how the word "wench" associated itself with him, and turned an even deeper shade of red. "Of course not," she repeated, this time with less gusto.
"Oh, I believe you," said the teenager, and he returned to placidly scrubbing the dishes. "It's just that I like to be sure. By the way, my name's Jacques."
"Jacques, then," said Meg awkwardly. "What -what are you doing and what is this place?"
Jacques eyed her like she was a dullard. "It's the galley. And I'm cleaning the dishes."
Meg had understood the second part, but she wasn't too sure about the first. "Galley?"
"Kitchen, if you're a land person," explained Jacques shrewdly, watching her the same pitying way.
"Where you make food?" said Meg brightly. She was pretending not to notice the look Jacques was giving her and in result was getting it even more.
Taking this for an answer (however resignedly), Meg asked more out of politeness than anything. "Do you need help with anything?"
"No," said Jacques.
"Well all right," said Meg huffily, turning on her heel and starting to storm out of the room.
"Come back whenever you like," Jacques called after her.
Meg was going very fast when she collided with something solid and rather tall, with kohl-lined eyes that blinked inquisitively down at her. Obviously, Captain Jack Sparrow.
"Problems, love?" he asked.
Meg, Meg, why can't you ever call me Meg? she thought irritably, and then remembered Jacques. "There's a dimwit in the kitchens," she informed him. "I mean, the galley."
"You would mean Jacques?" asked Jack mildly. "Ah, yes, Jacques - well, he's Nicholson's nephew - man didn't know what else to do with him - brought him here. Mostly I keep the lad in the kitchens where he can't do any harm."
"Harm?"
"It's a figure of speech, love!" Jack did another one of his odd gestures with his hands, and suddenly Meg thought she smelled alcohol, which was ridiculous because she'd never smelled it before. Needless to say, her imagination was taking control again. "You're welcome to take berth in my quarters," he said conversationally, jerking her out of her thoughts. "If you want."
Meg thought of Jacques - "Are you sure you're not just another one of the captain's wenches?" - and was practically sick. "Lovely," she managed. And fled.
Back to the storyline:
"I never thought life on a ship would be so utterly boring," Meg muttered. She had resumed her seat at the very bow of the Black Pearl, her spine ramrod straight and her ankles crossed demurely, and in this place, ridiculously.
It was high noon on the second day that she had been on the Black Pearl. The sun beat down wickedly at her steely back, that willowy figure in the fawn gown, the salty breezes toying mischievously with her already ragged golden chignon.
She could feel herself swooning slightly, she pursed her lips and managed to make herself look exceedingly ugly, but at least she wasn't sick. She was a noble lady -or almost one anyways- and she would act like one. It was odd - when she was in the proper place to be a noble lady she didn't want to be one, and then onboard this filthy ship she did.
Meg narrowed her hazel eyes to catlike, razor-thin slits. "I hate this place!" she burst out savagely at the sea, jerking at the coarse ropes that bound her in place. Oh yes, the ropes. Early that morning, when she had awoken on the very side of the ship's deck, where she had gingerly spent the night, she had chosen this very spot to, ah, make her quarters, rather to the annoyance of the sailors. "Wot if she falls off?" Nicholson had growled at Ana Maria. "I'm starting to get a conscience and it ain't nice. Mebbe it's 'cos she's a perdy little thing."
To this Ana Maria had seized the ropes and bound Megaera Alix in her seat. "You won't fall off," she told the shocked girl as explanation, then turned on her heel and snapped at Nicholson. "There, you happy?"
Meg squirmed harder. This place was as coarse as the ropes, vile and filthy and nasty. she was so wrapped up in hormonal, indignant thoughts that she almost failed to notice the familiar face that appeared around the spokes of the oaken wheel.
"Need a little help?" asked Captain Jack Sparrow delicately, sidling out from behind the steering appendage. "Ana Maria has -ah, strong hands when it comes to certain things."
If it hadn't been for the ropes, Meg would have fallen off the side in shock. "I'm fine, thank you," she managed coolly, stopping her wriggling immediately.
Jack inclined his head, raised his eyebrows, and ignored her, slipping forward to fiddle with the knots of her bindings.
Meg had a sudden urge to bite him; it didn't matter where, but she reasoned that he would probably taste awful. Besides, she really wanted to get out of these stupid -she twitched reflexively- ropes!
"There ye are, lass," said Jack approvingly, taking her hand and pulling her up before she realized what he was grabbing her hand for. This time it was she who inclined her head, however slightly (in thanks) - and immediately turned on the heel of her slipper and picked up the hated ropes, flinging them out at the equally detested seas below.
A rough hand snaked out and caught the cordage in mid-air. "Now, now," said Jack's sarcastic tones, "there's no need to go wasting good rope."
Meg opened her mouth to say something, anything, couldn't think of a single word and spun on her heel for the second time in so many moments and stalked off, crimson tinges spreading rapidly across her face. Stupid -she thought bitterly -pirates-
Stupid -stupid -stupid! she raged silently -mast-sails-captain-deck-ship!- pirates-stairs-doors-hallways (as she passed by each of these things they passed through her anti-nautical mind) until finally she came to an open door. Suddenly tired (silent temper tantrums can do that to a person); she poked her head around the doorway.
It was a room that she had never seen the likes of before. Large cabinets obscured the better part of it, several dirty dishes were flung everywhere, and there was a large basin in the middle of it all, filled with water, where a teenager was working steadily away with a rag.
He had sandy-brown hair, freckles, a willing air and the look of a shy person about him. Encouraged, Meg slipped in and observed more closely. He appeared to be scrubbing away at dishes.
He noticed something and looked up, straight at her. With a loud clang, he dropped the dish back into the basin (this was accompanied with a loud splash and jets of water sent everywhere) and jumped back. "Holy Mary mother of God," he blurted, brown deer's eyes wide with shock. "Who're you and what're you doing here?"
Well that's a lovely greeting, thought Meg wryly. "My name's Meg and I was kidnapped by Mr. Cotton and since I know too much I can't go back," she explained, grinning slightly at him. He didn't seem like a pirate at all.
The boy eyed her dubiously. After all, it was a rather suspicious story. "Are you sure you're not just another one of the captain's wenches?" he asked, which really told one about the ship's manner - even the shyest one of them all was well informed of such. things.
Meg turned scarlet from several different emotions. "Of course not!" she said furiously. Then she thought of Jack Sparrow, his strutting walk and carefree air, and how the word "wench" associated itself with him, and turned an even deeper shade of red. "Of course not," she repeated, this time with less gusto.
"Oh, I believe you," said the teenager, and he returned to placidly scrubbing the dishes. "It's just that I like to be sure. By the way, my name's Jacques."
"Jacques, then," said Meg awkwardly. "What -what are you doing and what is this place?"
Jacques eyed her like she was a dullard. "It's the galley. And I'm cleaning the dishes."
Meg had understood the second part, but she wasn't too sure about the first. "Galley?"
"Kitchen, if you're a land person," explained Jacques shrewdly, watching her the same pitying way.
"Where you make food?" said Meg brightly. She was pretending not to notice the look Jacques was giving her and in result was getting it even more.
Taking this for an answer (however resignedly), Meg asked more out of politeness than anything. "Do you need help with anything?"
"No," said Jacques.
"Well all right," said Meg huffily, turning on her heel and starting to storm out of the room.
"Come back whenever you like," Jacques called after her.
Meg was going very fast when she collided with something solid and rather tall, with kohl-lined eyes that blinked inquisitively down at her. Obviously, Captain Jack Sparrow.
"Problems, love?" he asked.
Meg, Meg, why can't you ever call me Meg? she thought irritably, and then remembered Jacques. "There's a dimwit in the kitchens," she informed him. "I mean, the galley."
"You would mean Jacques?" asked Jack mildly. "Ah, yes, Jacques - well, he's Nicholson's nephew - man didn't know what else to do with him - brought him here. Mostly I keep the lad in the kitchens where he can't do any harm."
"Harm?"
"It's a figure of speech, love!" Jack did another one of his odd gestures with his hands, and suddenly Meg thought she smelled alcohol, which was ridiculous because she'd never smelled it before. Needless to say, her imagination was taking control again. "You're welcome to take berth in my quarters," he said conversationally, jerking her out of her thoughts. "If you want."
Meg thought of Jacques - "Are you sure you're not just another one of the captain's wenches?" - and was practically sick. "Lovely," she managed. And fled.