A/N: This chapter contains some very serious material. I may be a bit light-hearted about it, putting humor in and everything, but I also don't want to be pushing the PG-13 rating.
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Chapter Eleven: Miss Anne Remembers
'Athair ar Neamh. Dia linn
Athair ar Neamh. Dia liom
M'anam mo chroí, mo ghlóir,
Moladh duit, a Dhia.
Fada an lá, go sámh
Fada an oích', gan ghruaim,
Aoibhneas, áthas, grá,
Moladh duit, a Dhia
Móraim thú ó lá go lá.
Móraim thú ó oích' go hoích'
Athair ar Neamh, Dia linn
Athair ar Neamh, Dia liom
an ghealach, an ghrian, an ghaoth,
moladh duit, a Dia.'
--"Athair ar Neamh"
Enya
"The Memory of Trees"
Irish Gaelic*
"His name was Robert. He was...he was..." Anne put her head in her hands and let out a sigh of agitation.
"He was what?"
"Something's wrong with me, Captain Sparrow!" she announced, ignoring his question. Jack laughed softly but made no answer. "I'm feeling so... strange. I never would have cared before about death or blood, or love. But now I feel all these strange things."
"Well, that's the thing about life, Anne. Sometimes you do feel... strange things." She absentmindedly rubbed the buckle of her shoe and didn't reply.
"It was all so long ago. I was fourteen," she said after a moment. "It was winter, one of the coldest we'd had in years, back when I had a father, a home, a life..."
**FLASHBACK**
'Good morning, Miss Brennan!' Anne greeted her acquantance with a weak smile and a wave of her hand, using her other to pull the shawl closer around her shoulders and adjusting the wicker basket around her arm. 'What do you have today?' Anne gestured toward the basket, and the young man of sixteen approached her.
'The same as usual, Mr. Wilson.' 'Usual' was two loaves of bread, a block of cheese, and a flask of mead for her father.
'Please, call me Robert,' was his grinning reply. Anne smiled again, but she was busy pondering whether the baker would miss the shilling she had 'forgotten' to pay him.
'Yes, of course... Robert.' She also was hoping she could get moving again. It was a thirty minute walk to her estate and she was cold. Her breath rose in wisps of vapor before her eyes. 'Was there anything else?' Robert shifted his weight from one foot to another, and when she looked up from adjusting her shawl again, she was surprised to see a strange look on his face. She couldn't place it. If she hadn't known better she would have said it was hunger. Strange, did he envy the food in her arms? Anne had several capable servants to do the shopping for her, but she rather liked doing it herself more, when she was in the mood to walk.
'Oh, no, Anne, I...' His voice drifted off and his gaze drifted to the breath rising from her lips and the flush on her cheeks. 'You look entirely too cold for comfort.' Anne realized she was, indeed, shivering, and nodded.
'Yes, Mi- I mean, Robert,' she replied.
'My mother is cooking soup; would you like to have some? My house is only a block away, and it would warm you up,' he said, and there was no mistaking that look again. Ah, that was it, she thought, he wants the soup. She considered for only a moment, weighing the choices: she was cold, Robert's mother was making warm soup, and her father wasn't expecting her for another half hour.
'Is it vegetable?'
'Uh, what? Oh, I mean, yes. How lucky,' Robert said, peeling his eyes away from her, eh, curves. Not that she noticed. Anne was much too ignorant at that age.
'Lead the way,' she said, smiling. Anne was gazing around her at the lovely snow-covered houses. So different from her large mansion. She also didn't notice that the young man's attention was STILL, in fact, not directed at her face. You see, Robert Wilson was a scheming, conniving rogue underneath his polite and gentleman-like exterior, and he had a plan forming in his blonde-covered head that was the most horrible of all. Because he felt something for Anne, he lusted for her at night on his pillow, and when a perfect opportunity sprung up, how could he resist? Poor Anne didn't know all of this, so when they did reach the house, she had not a clue as to his intention.
'Welcome to the Wilson residence, Miss Brennan,' said Robert, and opened the door. It was not, in fact, his house, which may explain the fact that he was a soldier in the Royal Navy several years later, though he got his just reward in the end, at the hands of Jack's cutlass. Funny ol' world, innit?
'This...?' She couldn't finish her statement however, because soon The Evil-Intentioned Mr. Wilson (TM) pinned her to the wall, causing her basket to fall and spoiling the good breakfast. 'WHAT THE HELL-?" She soon lost control of her mouth too, as The Evil-Intentioned Mr. Wilson was seeming to be most effectively sucking out all her air with his own lips. Oh, lovely, fell for the oldest trick in the book, Anne thought. Of course, eventually The Evil-Intentioned Mr. Wilson had to pause for breath, thank goodness, and she could put in a word.
'-HAS COME INTO YOUR HEAD, BOY?' she finished her previous statement. Robert was now eying the part of her that was moving up and down from her unsteady breathing with interest, and smiled leacherously at her.
'A very well-worked scheme, Miss Brennan, and it is, sincerely, my dearest pleasure, literally, to be able to share it with you, secretly.'
'Honestly?'
'I doubt I'm very honest; though, surely, it would be so much easier if you cooperated,' Robert said, slowly untying the knot in her shawl. What went through Anne's mind right then was like a flash of white-hot fire, anger and the desire to kick something that she had never had to such a degree before. Quite accurately, she kneed him in the crotch. Robert immediately let go of her, gasping. Anne kicked him to the ground, howling with rage.
"I" Left Leg.
"WILL" Right arm.
"NOT" Left hand.
"BE" Chin.
"YOUR" Stomach.
"PLEASURE!!!" Groin.
By this time, The-No-Longer-Evil-Intentioned-But-Quite-Unlucky Mr. Wilson (TM) was breathless with pain, and Anne spent another few minutes making sure he wouldn't be able to lunge at her, nor move at all, when she turned her back. In fact, when she was finished, she was quite sure he had passed out. Served the fool right... When Anne was satisfied, she let out a sigh, retied her shawl, picked up her basket, blew a sarcastic kiss to Robert, and walked out the door.
'Didn't even get any bloody soup...'
**END OF FLASHBACK**
By the time Anne was finished telling her story, Jack was wide-eyed and sweating. No, this was DEFINITELY not a woman to cross. Nope, not at all. He realized that Anne was breathing deeply, and was surprised to find tears streaming down her cheeks. She wiped them with her sleeve, but they kept coming.
"Something amiss, love?" Jack asked. And then, for the second time that week, he found himself with a sobbing woman on his shoulder. Not something he was experienced with. Angry women, yes. After-Jack's-Blood women, hell yes. Dammit-I-wanna-tear-off-your-shirt-you're-so-sexy-Jack women, bloody hell yes! But not sobbing women. No lasses ever went crying to Jack Sparrow. He wasn't exactly the sensative type (as a certain Miss Elizabeth could tell you), and Anne might as well have been crying on a cactus, though Jack's shoulder was, perhaps, reasonably more comfortable.
~*~*~*~*~*
A/N: I hope you liked this chapter. I rewrote it about a zillion times! And all reviewers get a Jack-shoulder to cry on whenever they feel the 'need.' *wink*
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Chapter Eleven: Miss Anne Remembers
'Athair ar Neamh. Dia linn
Athair ar Neamh. Dia liom
M'anam mo chroí, mo ghlóir,
Moladh duit, a Dhia.
Fada an lá, go sámh
Fada an oích', gan ghruaim,
Aoibhneas, áthas, grá,
Moladh duit, a Dhia
Móraim thú ó lá go lá.
Móraim thú ó oích' go hoích'
Athair ar Neamh, Dia linn
Athair ar Neamh, Dia liom
an ghealach, an ghrian, an ghaoth,
moladh duit, a Dia.'
--"Athair ar Neamh"
Enya
"The Memory of Trees"
Irish Gaelic*
"His name was Robert. He was...he was..." Anne put her head in her hands and let out a sigh of agitation.
"He was what?"
"Something's wrong with me, Captain Sparrow!" she announced, ignoring his question. Jack laughed softly but made no answer. "I'm feeling so... strange. I never would have cared before about death or blood, or love. But now I feel all these strange things."
"Well, that's the thing about life, Anne. Sometimes you do feel... strange things." She absentmindedly rubbed the buckle of her shoe and didn't reply.
"It was all so long ago. I was fourteen," she said after a moment. "It was winter, one of the coldest we'd had in years, back when I had a father, a home, a life..."
**FLASHBACK**
'Good morning, Miss Brennan!' Anne greeted her acquantance with a weak smile and a wave of her hand, using her other to pull the shawl closer around her shoulders and adjusting the wicker basket around her arm. 'What do you have today?' Anne gestured toward the basket, and the young man of sixteen approached her.
'The same as usual, Mr. Wilson.' 'Usual' was two loaves of bread, a block of cheese, and a flask of mead for her father.
'Please, call me Robert,' was his grinning reply. Anne smiled again, but she was busy pondering whether the baker would miss the shilling she had 'forgotten' to pay him.
'Yes, of course... Robert.' She also was hoping she could get moving again. It was a thirty minute walk to her estate and she was cold. Her breath rose in wisps of vapor before her eyes. 'Was there anything else?' Robert shifted his weight from one foot to another, and when she looked up from adjusting her shawl again, she was surprised to see a strange look on his face. She couldn't place it. If she hadn't known better she would have said it was hunger. Strange, did he envy the food in her arms? Anne had several capable servants to do the shopping for her, but she rather liked doing it herself more, when she was in the mood to walk.
'Oh, no, Anne, I...' His voice drifted off and his gaze drifted to the breath rising from her lips and the flush on her cheeks. 'You look entirely too cold for comfort.' Anne realized she was, indeed, shivering, and nodded.
'Yes, Mi- I mean, Robert,' she replied.
'My mother is cooking soup; would you like to have some? My house is only a block away, and it would warm you up,' he said, and there was no mistaking that look again. Ah, that was it, she thought, he wants the soup. She considered for only a moment, weighing the choices: she was cold, Robert's mother was making warm soup, and her father wasn't expecting her for another half hour.
'Is it vegetable?'
'Uh, what? Oh, I mean, yes. How lucky,' Robert said, peeling his eyes away from her, eh, curves. Not that she noticed. Anne was much too ignorant at that age.
'Lead the way,' she said, smiling. Anne was gazing around her at the lovely snow-covered houses. So different from her large mansion. She also didn't notice that the young man's attention was STILL, in fact, not directed at her face. You see, Robert Wilson was a scheming, conniving rogue underneath his polite and gentleman-like exterior, and he had a plan forming in his blonde-covered head that was the most horrible of all. Because he felt something for Anne, he lusted for her at night on his pillow, and when a perfect opportunity sprung up, how could he resist? Poor Anne didn't know all of this, so when they did reach the house, she had not a clue as to his intention.
'Welcome to the Wilson residence, Miss Brennan,' said Robert, and opened the door. It was not, in fact, his house, which may explain the fact that he was a soldier in the Royal Navy several years later, though he got his just reward in the end, at the hands of Jack's cutlass. Funny ol' world, innit?
'This...?' She couldn't finish her statement however, because soon The Evil-Intentioned Mr. Wilson (TM) pinned her to the wall, causing her basket to fall and spoiling the good breakfast. 'WHAT THE HELL-?" She soon lost control of her mouth too, as The Evil-Intentioned Mr. Wilson was seeming to be most effectively sucking out all her air with his own lips. Oh, lovely, fell for the oldest trick in the book, Anne thought. Of course, eventually The Evil-Intentioned Mr. Wilson had to pause for breath, thank goodness, and she could put in a word.
'-HAS COME INTO YOUR HEAD, BOY?' she finished her previous statement. Robert was now eying the part of her that was moving up and down from her unsteady breathing with interest, and smiled leacherously at her.
'A very well-worked scheme, Miss Brennan, and it is, sincerely, my dearest pleasure, literally, to be able to share it with you, secretly.'
'Honestly?'
'I doubt I'm very honest; though, surely, it would be so much easier if you cooperated,' Robert said, slowly untying the knot in her shawl. What went through Anne's mind right then was like a flash of white-hot fire, anger and the desire to kick something that she had never had to such a degree before. Quite accurately, she kneed him in the crotch. Robert immediately let go of her, gasping. Anne kicked him to the ground, howling with rage.
"I" Left Leg.
"WILL" Right arm.
"NOT" Left hand.
"BE" Chin.
"YOUR" Stomach.
"PLEASURE!!!" Groin.
By this time, The-No-Longer-Evil-Intentioned-But-Quite-Unlucky Mr. Wilson (TM) was breathless with pain, and Anne spent another few minutes making sure he wouldn't be able to lunge at her, nor move at all, when she turned her back. In fact, when she was finished, she was quite sure he had passed out. Served the fool right... When Anne was satisfied, she let out a sigh, retied her shawl, picked up her basket, blew a sarcastic kiss to Robert, and walked out the door.
'Didn't even get any bloody soup...'
**END OF FLASHBACK**
By the time Anne was finished telling her story, Jack was wide-eyed and sweating. No, this was DEFINITELY not a woman to cross. Nope, not at all. He realized that Anne was breathing deeply, and was surprised to find tears streaming down her cheeks. She wiped them with her sleeve, but they kept coming.
"Something amiss, love?" Jack asked. And then, for the second time that week, he found himself with a sobbing woman on his shoulder. Not something he was experienced with. Angry women, yes. After-Jack's-Blood women, hell yes. Dammit-I-wanna-tear-off-your-shirt-you're-so-sexy-Jack women, bloody hell yes! But not sobbing women. No lasses ever went crying to Jack Sparrow. He wasn't exactly the sensative type (as a certain Miss Elizabeth could tell you), and Anne might as well have been crying on a cactus, though Jack's shoulder was, perhaps, reasonably more comfortable.
~*~*~*~*~*
A/N: I hope you liked this chapter. I rewrote it about a zillion times! And all reviewers get a Jack-shoulder to cry on whenever they feel the 'need.' *wink*