*****

He was supposed to die on the Pearl, surrounded by loyal crewmembers, rich beyond belief.

A legend.

Yet here he was, flopping onto the sand like a dead fish, collapsing with his lungs never filling with enough air, certain that death would find him and make a fine friend, indeed. He was too broken, too tired to even watch as his ship disappeared into the distance, blending with the horizon at full speed, heading towards his treasure.

The thought that he had fought for his ship, his Pearl, was small comfort when he set the truth out in the open-- bare, raw, and inescapably harsh. He was on an island with no fresh water--or at least no means to obtain it-- no food, and no chance of escape save for the blessed silence that comes with a bullet to the head. Suicide didn't suit his tastes, but with the polished caress of the wheel lost to him and the sound of its thieves' voices like a storm in his ears, he could hardly blame himself for thinking about it once or twice.

"I'm not a heartless man, Jack. In fact, to show my gratitude for you giving me the bearings to the treasure, I'm going ta let you live. I've even picked out a nice little spot where you can settle down. An' of course, if you don't find your paradise appealing, I'll be givin' you this. Use the shot well, boy. You've only got the one, and I wouldn't want you to waste it..."

He had leaned close to the mutinous dog then, eyes narrowed, unblinking, his voice almost a whisper.

"Nah, mate, I won't waste it. I'll save it special for you, savvy?"

The bravado came to his lips so easily and with such speed, he hadn't even really considered the truth behind the words before he uttered them. Had no idea if he really believed his own threats, had no idea that this promise would become his sole purpose, his only goal, for ten years.

"Sure, lad. Save the bullet for me and starve to death, we won't mourn ye either way."

Barbossa's insults, the crew's sycophant laughter--the all too fresh memory of it all kept his anger alive, pure. His first mate's name had become a curse in his mind with every steady stroke that brought him towards the island.

"Barbossa, Barbossa, Barbossa..."

And the growled name in his brain continued long after his body stopped shaking from hatred and his lungs settled into a calm rhythm. He felt suddenly boneless and wondered at the fact that his wounds seemed to belong to someone else, how he couldn't even feel them. In fact, besides his hatred, he only felt one thing.

Burning.

His skin was burning. Cruel sun scorching his flesh, browning him from tan to leathery brown while salty seawater caressed his feet for one cooling moment only to ebb away again. He swore vultures were all but circling his head though the island seemed perfectly still and the sky clear of fowl and cloud. An abandoned, god-forsaken, island. Babossa had marooned him...on hell.

And just like the Biblical punishment for sinners, the island only got hotter, the hellish daylight brighter.

The grit of sand between his fingers and underneath his nails was a silent reminder that he was alive as he crawled towards the tree line to blessed shade. Only his torso made it underneath the cover of palms before exhaustion knocked him over the head. He closed his eyes and slipped into dark dreams.

When true darkness came, accompanied by the strange, night-noises of the island, he slept through it. For how long, he didn't know, but when he woke with the pistol beside him, once again a victim of scorching sunlight, a strange sort of clarity slipped into his mind unbidden.

He would not die this way.

Reaching out for the pistol, he brought it before his dry eyes, cocked it and considered it with renewed interest, turning it from side to side as if searching for secrets. One shot. One betrayal. One man to pay for it all.

Never a man to let an opportunity for poetic justice pass him by, his heat- dulled mind decided on a much more useful purpose for the single bullet contained in the pistol than to blast it into his skull.

"Nah, mate, I won't waste it. I'll save it special for you, savvy?"

He let the hammer settle safely back into place, let the bullet remain nestled in its chamber. Nothing would be wasted. And he would not die this way.

*****