Title: Le Noir
Author:musexmoirai
Pairing: Jack/Giselle, Jack/Death
Rating: R
Warning: Three original characters. Quotes from Hamlet and A Midsummer's Night's Dream. Some French and Spanish phrases.
Note: Thanks to theotherej for the lovely, if belated, beta!
Feedback: If it's nice, that's good. If it's useful, that's better.
Disclaimer: Everything PotC belongs to Disney. The characters El Hidalgo, Red Corkscrew, and the Mongrel are mine. So are the ships La Perra, The Azrael, and The Harbinger and the tavern called The Bleeding Heart.
Summary: Some think Jack's struck a bargain with Death.
***
If the sea was his wife, and rum was his mistress, then the playing table would be his dearest confidant. He had them memorized, all the cards: the kings, the queens, the jacks, and the aces. They were solace in sin, unpredictable consistency, danger in fifty-two painted faces. He loved them and for good reason. Jack Sparrow was always good at cards.
It was for their comfort that he sauntered into The Bleeding Heart at Tortuga on a moonless night. He had little left now, neither the Black Pearl nor a crew, only the clothes on his back, his revolver in its holster, and a bag of doubloons he had swiped from a rum trader when the man wasn't looking. That was all he needed.
Sparrow was greeted by scarlet red lips and a well-endowed heaving bosom the instant he entered the tavern. Soft arms twined around his neck and a simpering female voiced cooed, "Oh Jacques, mon cheri," in his ear.
"Giselle," he greeted and did not try to correct her mistake. He knew by long years of association that Giselle ate second-rate chocolate and painstakingly fixed up her dresses for hours over dim candlelight until they fit the height of fashion. She fancied herself sophisticated and it was easier for Sparrow to let her keep her French pretensions than to argue. "Mind the earring, luv," he said.
Giselle giggled and led him to one of the side tables. Then she was wriggling and squirming into his lap and only over her shoulder could he see the rest of the tavern. A lone bartender was serving drinks and a card game was in progress in the middle of the room. Over in the corner, a pair of whores turned their tricks on a group of three men. Sparrow raised an eyebrow at that. He usually knew how these arrangements worked out and he sincerely hoped that one of the men wouldn't mind sharing for a night.
Giselle's hands busied themselves opening his shirt. Then they were replaced by her mouth, licking and nuzzling at the tanned skin. A soft high mewling noise issued from her throat and Sparrow threaded his fingers through her brown hair. He caressed the soft locks with an almost idle compliancy but stopped when she bent her head to suckle a dark nipple. His hands froze for an instant, then cupped her chin and brought her head back up to meet his eyes.
He stroked her cheek. "Not that I don't appreciate it, but why the rush? Surely Madame has you trained better than that. I don't mean to criticize your technique.well, perhaps I do.but to my knowledge, it's customary to keep the paying pockets entranced for as long as possible."
Giselle seemed to take no notice of his words and instead purred, "But I've missed you for so very much, Jacques."
"Indeed. How long was I gone at sea?"
"A month."
"A week and a half."
"Oui." The word was a moan from the impatient Giselle, who had no longer been listening to him and had once more fastened her mouth to various parts of his anatomy. Sparrow didn't try to stop her and continued to talk.
"You keep this up, and I'm not going to last. And I've been trying to get you to stop, but you won't listen. Which makes me think you're after something. Can I ask, Giselle, has business been doing badly these last couple of days?"
For only a moment, Giselle's movements faltered but she recovered admirably. Sparrow, however, was perceptive, and noticed. In a softer voice, he added, "I am right, aren't I?"
"Vous homme putréfié! Vous pensez que vous êtes si futé," she exclaimed violently and her voice quivered.
"That's hardly fair now, Giselle. You cannot expect me to converse in French. You'll have to repeat it. In English this time."
She shook her head and shut her eyes hard enough that little lines appeared around her eyelids. Her voice when she spoke was lower, no longer as girlish as it had been before. "It's not any of your business."
"You try not to feel slighted when you've become just another number on a list. Tell me, what's the goal for tonight? Ten? Twenty?" He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Even you can't be that ambitious. What am I?" Sparrow asked and counted on his fingers. "Seven? Twelve?" The last number took a little bit of a fancy hand-waving to convey.
"Jacques, you are drunk," Giselle interjected and felt the lessening of a tension in her body she hadn't even been aware of. It was then that she noticed that Sparrow's behavior had been queer tonight, as though it was not the man himself, but a stranger that had taken the place of the Captain that she remembered so well. She had always known that Sparrow was an intense man with a fine sense of humor and a flair for weaving tales. But this apparition had a thicker ring of kohl around the eyes (lending a menacing look to the face) and possessed a wilder, reckless grin (she hadn't recalled him having so many gold teeth).
Sparrow certainly must have drunk deep into his cups to arrive at the state that he was at. "Mon petit loup," Giselle cried, feeling a sudden rush of fondness and pity for the bedraggled pirate (she saw now how worn his clothes were and how limply his hair hung around his face). "Let your Giselle take care of you! All will be right in the morning." In her sudden emotional outpouring, she grasped his face in her hands and gathered it to her chest.
"'fraid not," Sparrow happily answered, his voice muffled by flesh and cloth. "This is more of a.um.permanent arrangement." He relaxed in the physical pleasure of being pressed against Giselle's best-loved assets for another moment until the novelty wore off. Then he grew restless and said, "You can let go now, woman, before I suffocate on your cologne."
Giselle did so and beamed at him, her good humor restored. She batted her eyelashes coyly, once more putting on her paramour airs. "If you weren't up for it tonight, darling, you should have just said so. I needn't have told Madame that I've wanted a room open."
"You would have laughed."
"Of course not." Then she reconsidered and giggled. "Perhaps just a little."
Sparrow tilted his head and regarded her. "Everyone laughs at Mad Captain Jack." He scratched his head, a little in confusion. "But he knows magic, see?" He made a fist and held it out to the left of him, in front of her eyes.
She peered at it, the lusty woman gone and replaced by an eager child. "What is that?"
"This." He announced rather bombastically and opened his hand, finger by finger. The pinky, ring, middle, and index to reveal. nothing there.
Sparrow watched the expressions flash across Giselle's face (expectationconfusionirritation) and laughed. He watched her weigh options in her mind (laugh it off? slap him? refuse to talk?) and wondered if he knew how transparent she was. If madness lent him the advantage of playing men and women like marionettes, then it was a newfound power that he exploited and relished.
"You might want to fix your dress," he said as she scowled, "because.yes. Well, it's a lovely view from here, but something's showing."
His grin grew broader as she looked down, her glower transforming into muted amazement as she saw the gold glinting between her breasts, balanced precariously above the shadow of her clothes and cleavage. It was a small trinket no bigger than a coin, in the figure of a dainty rose with graceful petals.
Sparrow watched her become enthralled with the knickknack, her pleasure amusing him as much as her earlier anger had. He figured that this dark delight wasn't keen on consistency and flared whenever he saw the effect of his manner and speech on another person. Sparrow knew that he had the heart of a troubadour and liked it just fine, so long as all eyes were on him.
Giselle needn't know that the flower she was currently admiring so ardently was not gold at all, only painted copper. Matter of fact, there actually was an interesting story behind this particular trinket, involving an old woman with more goats than the Good Lord ever intended any living being to have. But Sparrow didn't bother to mention it now, it simply slipped his mind. All for the better really, for it wouldn't hurt Giselle any to have her think she owned something of worth.
And he liked the smile that spread across her features (it was one of his less selfish moments). Giselle was, by all accounts, no great beauty, merely plain-looking, a fact that sometimes could be covered with well- applied rouge and eye shadow. However, there was enough to her to keep the customers coming back, by virtue of her charm and the sincerity of her smile.
Obviously delighted, she threw her arms around the pirate's shoulders and hugged him hard. She was murmuring soft words - "cheri" and "cher coeur" - over and over into his ears and he was fairly sure that they were supposed to be compliments.
He smiled. "Never let it be said that Captain Jack Sparrow is an ungenerous man."
She opened her mouth to speak and was interrupted by a smooth man's voice.
"If the good Captain is feeling free with his purse, perhaps he'd care to try his luck at the table."
Apparently, Sparrow and Giselle's conversation had not gone unnoticed. Sitting at the card table was a finely dressed, handsome man with bronze Mediterranean skin. On the seas, he was known as El Hidalgo, captain of a ship with an unusually long name: La Perra del Mar. Few remembered the full name and the most called it La Perra.
El Hidalgo was a gentleman pirate with a careless charm and a penchant for flattering the ladies. But Sparrow had seen the other side of the man. He remembered a child crying and Hidalgo laughing and virgin blood running like water through those fine hands. Ever since then, he had distrusted the man and El Hidalgo knew it. He grinned at Sparrow, a slow easy smirk, and Sparrow gave him a tight-lipped smile in reply.
"Or perhaps, Jack," El Hidalgo began, and his voice all at once held easy camaraderie and silken poison. The arrogance and confidence of the man was reflected in everything he wore, from the tasseled boots to the red-plumed hat. It was certainly an outfit that would have looked comical on any other person, but flattered El Hidalgo's features perfectly. "You are afraid to gamble, for you might prove as," his mouth twitched in amusement, "impotent at cards as you are with the fairer sex."
"Oh?" Sparrow strutted over to El Hidalgo's seat, one hand stroking at his chin. Abruptly, he leaned down until his face was close to the other man's. "I recall hearing all about your exploits with the lasses."
El Hidalgo's brow furrowed in surprise at the compliment but nonetheless, he looked rather pleased.
"And the lads," Sparrow continued. "Tell me, Spaniard, did you miss me in your bed?"
Anger replaced satisfaction and the hands of El Hidalgo flew as he drew his cutlass. Sparrow was quicker, and his revolver was out and aimed at El Hidalgo's head even as the other's blade was pointed at his throat. "Tut, tut," Sparrow chided, "you sure you'll be wanting to lose such a pretty face in a barroom brawl such as this?"
A loud hearty laugh sounded from one of the other players at the table. Sparrow's curiosity was piqued but he avoided turning around. Only when El Hidalgo had reluctantly resheathed his sword did Sparrow look to see who it was.
Red Corkscrew, a big bear of a man with a shock of violent orange hair, was first mate on The Greyhawk. This lady of the seas was a large ship and her crew was a boisterous one. Corkscrew was no exception. He was hot-blooded and quick to anger but easy to forgive.
He chuckled when he met Sparrow's eye and proclaimed, "Go right 'head, Captain. Yer'll have at least one man who'll back yer right up."
"Don't mind Corkscrew." The fury had disappeared from Hidalgo's face and was once more replaced by that casual blank stare. "He's just upset because he's lost a fortune at the table."
"Damn right I have." Corkscrew collected his pint of beer and stood up. "And don't think I ain't noticed, 'ither," - he tipped the drink jerkily in El Hidalgo's direction, so that liquid sloshed out of the mug - "that most of it's gone into this blackguard's pockets. Now, if yer'll 'cuse me, I plan to get piss drunk with what little money I've got left." Here he pushed past Sparrow and ambled over to the nearest source of alcohol.
Sparrow slid into Corkscrew's abandoned seat and folded his fingers together. He cast a glance around the table. Seated at his right was El Hidalgo, and across from him was a seaman named Mongrel.
Mongrel was an old Chinaman with one eye. The left side of his face was a series of half-healed white scars, souvenirs of a run-in with a great white (or so it was said). His left eye had been gouged out in the process. Mongrel's loyalty lay with the disreputable ship Azarael and the mangy yellow cur that lay by his side, the same one that was responsible for his nickname. It was said that Mongrel was a dirty fighter but no one was particularly eager to test that theory, least of all Jack Sparrow.
The man on his left, a dark stranger with a dark red shirt, a black hat, and white gloves, he did not recognize. The stranger was soft-spoken with a particularly honeyed voice, and his actions were slow and deliberate. The patches of his skin that Sparrow could see were a dark chocolate brown.
"Ah," said Giselle, seeing Sparrow's attention diverted to the stranger. "That one the regulars call Le Noir. But then." She sashayed around Le Noir, her hands weaving into the folds of the man's red shirt. She stroked his shoulders, his chest, all the while looking slyly at Sparrow. "The ladies, we like to call him.Ami." The last word was spoken like a caress.
Sparrow grinned, nonplussed. "Good to meet you, Ami. Hope you're as good at cards as you are with your girls. Hidalgo, lad, the cards please?"
With a flick of the wrist, El Hidalgo passed out the cards among the players. Sparrow felt a genuine delight at reencountering so many dear acquaintances once more.
Hello, Queen of Hearts, what a vixen Your Majesty is! And the King of Clubs, such a violent temper, simply must learn to relax. And here, the greatest knave and jester! The Jack of Diamonds always makes one laugh. Mustn't forget the Ace of Spades. Aye, what an enigma that one is.
But the Ace now wanted to say:
"Ah, Jack. the lunatic, the lover, and the poet are all of imagination compact. One sees more devils than the vast hell can hold; this is the madman."
Sparrow has never gotten along well with the Ace of Spades.
He played and saw all the cards and the hands and missed near everything else. He failed to see the smiles Giselle tossed his way, combined with the scowls of El Hidalgo and Mongrel. He did not see the silent regard with which Le Noir watched him.
He won the first few rounds before his luck turned and Mongrel abruptly began to gain higher hands. The royal suit abandoned Sparrow and left him with the low numbers: the lazy twos, the weary threes, the imprudent fours, and the careless fives.
Mongrel showed his hand: three aces, two queens.
El Hidalgo held a pair of tens.
Le Noir had three sixes.
Sparrow didn't really have much of anything.
As Mongrel collected his winnings, Le Noir leaned in next to him. "You've been awfully lucky," he said, and his voice was low and smooth. "I wonder if that's all there is to it." A white-gloved hand grasped one of Mongrel's shoulders.
Mongrel muttered in his guttural native language. "Your lady of luck," he explained. "She is with me."
El Hidalgo said, "Ami, you are entirely too suspicious."
The white hand withdrew and the game resumed.
Mongrel won the next few games.
After an unusually high hand (royal flush), Le Noir's white hand once more traced its way to Mongrel's shoulders. He flinched and the hand twisted into his clothing at his chest. It extracted a card. An ace.
"Ah," said Le Noir's soft voice as the ace was displayed in one palm. "You been hiding this from us all along?"
Then both of Le Noir's hands clutched Mongrel's neck in a loose embrace. Surprised, Sparrow wondered if Le Noir intended to hug the cheater. But there was a sharp pull. The white hands fluttered together like butterflies, then split apart. Sparrow saw a glittering fine string in between those nimble skeletal fingers. Mongrel's body sagged toward Le Noir.
Then his head rolled off onto the table and faced Sparrow. The cur sat up and howled.
Sparrow leaned over and looked in the dead man's eyes. "Pity that. You shouldn't have tried to trick us, you know. Treachery is the worst sort of sin there is. You cannot imagine how much I hate traitors."
Then he patted Mongrel's head. There was a river of blood staining the table.
After a minute, El Hidalgo laughed. "Here I am sitting with a madman and Death himself. Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Is this a mercy or a torment?" He turned to Sparrow. "Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd, bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell." Then he turned to address Le Noir. "Be thy intents wicked or charitable, thou comest in such a questionable shape.
"Tell me now," he continued, "whether I am to die today or if the pair of you are simply part of my imaginings. Am I to be converted to a faith this late in life?"
"Hidalgo," Sparrow replied, "kindly shut up. You are impossibly long- winded."
Le Noir's answer was as soft and polite as ever. "To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause. And there's the question. Hidalgo, do you wish to die? You've yet to know what dreams the dead have."
"Señor Dios me protege," El Hidalgo said, "I've no wish to die."
"Then by all means, leave. I didn't come for you."
"Captain Sparrow," El Hidalgo tossed a patronizing smile at the man in question, "this I leave to you. With all luck, we shall never meet again." He gave a bow to Giselle and the girls in the corner, followed by a rakish smile. "Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies;
good night, good night."
Then, laughing, El Hidalgo left the cards and his money at the table and walked out of the inn.
"Absolutely lovely, but it's late and I have no idea what the pair of you have just said," cheerfully retorted Sparrow. "Shakespeare's a brilliant lad, but I'm not too fond of his plays."
"Shall we play?" asked Le Noir, shuffling the deck.
"I know you. I've played against you before, out on that island." Sparrow remembered heat and boredom and a bargain made. "I won that time. But you looked different then." There was no hat and Death's skin was pale and white. "I can win again. Have you come to take back what you've given me?"
"That depends on the situation," was Death's response, and he began to deal the cards.
"Ah, but you can't. We're mates now. You've practically given me immortality. Said you'd help me. Matter of fact, I need your help right now." Sparrow looked at his hand: three kings, a five, and a jack. His old friends were back.
"What for?" Death asked, holding a hand of his own. It was disconcerting for Sparrow to see the brim of the hat instead of a face. He liked to watch people's reactions. Or in this case, the reactions of supernatural beings.
"You know why. I need a ship to bring the Black Pearl back." Sparrow was feeling confident. He had watched long enough to know that the cards did not favor Death. Last time, he had won with a low hand.
"I have my ship, The Harbinger. That may help you in your search."
"Ownership papers," Sparrow requested and discarded two cards. Death pulled the papers out of a pocket and placed them on the table.
"And what will you give me in return?" Death tossed all five in his hand down and drew a fresh hand. Sparrow smiled in contentment.
"Same thing as last time," he said, and elaborated with his hands. "Myself."
Sparrow's cards were four kings and a queen.
"We have an accord," Death said, serene and sweet and Sparrow was not at all worried.
The cards were displayed. Death held a straight flush: all hearts. Two, three, four, five, six, seven.
"So," said Sparrow. "I suppose you've won."
"So," said Death. "I suppose I have."
Giselle laughed, loud and joyous. Sparrow had forgotten she was at the table at all. She pulled the hat off Death's face and held Death's chin in one hand. Then she kissed Death on the mouth long and hard.
Death was a woman. She was quite beautiful. Sparrow smirked wryly. There were worst ways to go.
Giselle pranced over to Sparrow, asking him to extend his hands, wrists together and palms up. He acquiesced. She used a length of rope and tied them together, all the while beaming and laughing.
He gave her one last kiss. She tasted like French wine and chocolates.
Then he followed Death to the harbor, where the sea was black at night and The Harbinger was waiting.
***
"My name's not actually Death," Death said.
Sparrow raised an eyebrow. "I suppose you'll tell me it's Virginia?"
"Anamaria," Death corrected. They were in the Captain's chamber of The Harbinger. She walked to the bed and proceeded to toss off some of the blankets and a pillow.
"Since you have gone quite mad, what am I to be doing right now?"
"I'm making you a bed so you can sleep here and not in the crew's quarters," she explained patiently. "This is the first time I've ever won someone in a card game and I'm not quite sure what to do with you. So I'm not going to let you out of my sight. Whatever possessed you to wager yourself?"
"Ah, there, you see, I was quite certain you wouldn't win."
"You are very, very mad." Anamaria cocked her head and examined him. "I've heard stories about you, Captain Sparrow."
That made him smile. "Aye."
Anamaria walked over to him and he noticed that he was barely taller than she. She smelled like of spices from someplace far away. Her eyes looked black in the dark, but they were brown in the candlelight and must have been gold when the sun shone. She rolled up the long right sleeve of his shirt. On the tanned skin was the image of a blue bird in flight. Gently, almost chastely, she leaned down and kissed it.
"You were always my favorite pirate," she said.
Sparrow was not entirely convinced that this young girl was not Death. Nonetheless, he clasped her hand with his tied ones and held them. He watched her, and she looked scared and sad and nothing like the same person who had blithely killed Mongrel. She watched him, and the light of the candle threw his face into intriguing shadows and his presence was overwhelmingly potent and strong. She breathed and it filled her like a fine wine.
She might have fallen in love with him then, because he was crazy and looked good in the candlelight. But she would always deny it later.
She tipped her head up and kissed him on the mouth. He noticed that she did not kiss like most women; her lips were not pliant at all, but demanding. He could feel her tongue, wet and slick between his teeth.
When she drew back, he said softly, "Taking advantage of the situation, are we?"
Anamaria's eyes were unfocused, the pupils lost in irises of black. "Wouldn't be quite right," she murmured, "not to enjoy my prize."
And then her lips were at his neck and his throat and her hands were tugging his shirt off. In that mess of limbs and skin and clothes, Sparrow was tugged closer and closer to the large ornate bed. When he fell, he felt the bedspread pool around his thighs and the smooth wood of the headboard was hard under his head.
He watched her above him as she tied his hands to the bedposts. He watched the dark valleys and corners of her body, the soft mounds of her breasts, the sweat-slick lines of her thighs, and thought that this must be what Death looked like. She was seductive and dark and he loved her then because she must be kin to the Sea, for they were so very alike.
Anamaria was kisses and slow torture, giving Sparrow the sensations he craved but none of the satisfaction. A touch here at the chest, a lick and nip with the teeth at the groin until he twisted upward. She would touch him and then herself, and his hands would clench and struggle at the bonds. She would use her fingers, one by one, and circle between her legs, then into and up. He would die wondering how it felt.
When Anamaria's thighs straddled him as he pumped into her with a rhythm that was both fierce and primitive, a strange discontent settled in his heart. She tilted her head so that her hair cascaded down her shoulders and her neck was suddenly, nakedly, exposed. Sparrow would feel the need to ask a question but he would answer it himself by reaching up so that his nose brushed her jugular vein. He bit the juncture where her neck met her shoulders, bit hard and was surprised to see the skin rip and blood well up.
Anamaria barely flinched and even smiled at him, a look of dazed adoration on her face. All the while, blood trickled down her chest, cutting her torso in half down the middle. Sparrow watched and found his answer.
She was not Death, after all.
She bent her head to kiss behind his ear and he smiled, bitter and disillusioned. And perhaps then, through no fault of her own, she had broken his heart.
Anamaria soon fell asleep, her head pillowed on Sparrow's shoulder and her hair tickling his face. He waited until her breathing was deep and even before untying his hands from the rough rope and the bedpost. He sat up on the bed, folding his fingers together in his lap, and began to think. The light from the candle flickered and was soon out.
***
Giselle always walked near the harbor in the morning when the sun had newly risen. Her keen business sense had told her it was a good way to search for potential customers.
She found a large pile of white sheets behind one of the crates. She went over for a closer look and saw a familiar face. Enlisting the help of one of the stevedores, she had it brought back to her little flat behind The Bleeding Heart.
She took great care to clean the dirty face and comb the messy hair. When Anamaria woke an hour later, she didn't ask any questions.
Anamaria didn't cry, not when she woke up and found herself out of The Harbinger. Not when she realized that her clothes were here but her ownership papers to the ship were missing. She hadn't cried since she was a little girl and she had always suspected that she had forgotten how.
She was grateful when Giselle said nothing but took her hand. She noticed that Giselle wore a beautiful piece of new jewelry. She commented on it, a gold rose tied to a length of rope. It hung high on Giselle's neck and glinted fetchingly in the sun.
"Do you like it?" Giselle asked. "I was planning to stop by the pawn broker's in the evening." She gave a sudden laugh. "I swear the rent becomes higher each day."
Then she asked if Anamaria would like a cup of tea. Anamaria said yes and did not comment on how chipped and faded the ceramic was. Both women sat holding cups of tea, one on a sagging mattress and the other at a wooden table with mismatched legs, each wondering what exactly it was they had lost.
***
Author Notes:
mon cheri- my darling
oui- yes
vous homme putréfié! vous pensez que vous êtes si futé- you rotten man! you think that you are so smart.
mon petit loup- my little wolf
le noir- the black one
ami- friend
señor Dios me protege- God protect me
El Hidalgo is a low-ranking Spanish nobleman and is also the title of Viggo Mortensen's new movie.
A stevedore is a person who helps load ships.
People and ships:
El Hidalgo- La Perra del Mar, La Perra
"The sea bitch" (literally, "the bitch of the sea") La Perra simply means "the bitch"
Red Corkscrew, -The Greyhawk
Mongrel-The Azrael
From www.encyclopedia.com:
Azrael -Azraelaz´rael[Heb.,=help of god], in the Qur'an, angel of death, who severs the soul from the body. The name and the concept were borrowed from Judaism.
For more info, go to:
Le Noir, Ami, Anamaria- The Harbinger
Quotes:
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are all of imagination compact.
One sees more devils than the vast hell can hold;
This is the madman.
-A Midsummer's Night's Dream
Act V, Scene I
Angels and ministers of grace defend us!
Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd,
Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked or charitable,
Thou comest in such a questionable shape
-Hamlet
Act I, Scene IV
To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
-Hamlet
Act III, Scene I
Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies;
good night, good night.
-Hamlet
Act IV, Scene V
***
I think I wrote this whole fic in the hopes that I could then beg the community for a Giselle/Jack/AnaMaria avatar or a Foursome! avatar with the Famous Threesome + AnaMaria. Wishful thinking... :)
What did everyone think of my Original Characters? If you like them, I'll bring them back in another fic or maybe in ALT+F4. My favorite is certainly El Hidalgo. Snarky bastard.
I apologize for any butchering of original character/plot that has occurred. Jack and AnaMaria's meeting was probably more like:
Jack: Wow, look, there's something shiny! Gold!
AnaMaria: What? Where? (looks around frantically)
Jack: (steals AnaMaria's ship) AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
AnaMaria: (waving fist) Damn you to hell, pirate!
But now we all know why Giselle's pissed off at Jack now. Guess she found out the rose wasn't real...
***
Author:musexmoirai
Pairing: Jack/Giselle, Jack/Death
Rating: R
Warning: Three original characters. Quotes from Hamlet and A Midsummer's Night's Dream. Some French and Spanish phrases.
Note: Thanks to theotherej for the lovely, if belated, beta!
Feedback: If it's nice, that's good. If it's useful, that's better.
Disclaimer: Everything PotC belongs to Disney. The characters El Hidalgo, Red Corkscrew, and the Mongrel are mine. So are the ships La Perra, The Azrael, and The Harbinger and the tavern called The Bleeding Heart.
Summary: Some think Jack's struck a bargain with Death.
***
If the sea was his wife, and rum was his mistress, then the playing table would be his dearest confidant. He had them memorized, all the cards: the kings, the queens, the jacks, and the aces. They were solace in sin, unpredictable consistency, danger in fifty-two painted faces. He loved them and for good reason. Jack Sparrow was always good at cards.
It was for their comfort that he sauntered into The Bleeding Heart at Tortuga on a moonless night. He had little left now, neither the Black Pearl nor a crew, only the clothes on his back, his revolver in its holster, and a bag of doubloons he had swiped from a rum trader when the man wasn't looking. That was all he needed.
Sparrow was greeted by scarlet red lips and a well-endowed heaving bosom the instant he entered the tavern. Soft arms twined around his neck and a simpering female voiced cooed, "Oh Jacques, mon cheri," in his ear.
"Giselle," he greeted and did not try to correct her mistake. He knew by long years of association that Giselle ate second-rate chocolate and painstakingly fixed up her dresses for hours over dim candlelight until they fit the height of fashion. She fancied herself sophisticated and it was easier for Sparrow to let her keep her French pretensions than to argue. "Mind the earring, luv," he said.
Giselle giggled and led him to one of the side tables. Then she was wriggling and squirming into his lap and only over her shoulder could he see the rest of the tavern. A lone bartender was serving drinks and a card game was in progress in the middle of the room. Over in the corner, a pair of whores turned their tricks on a group of three men. Sparrow raised an eyebrow at that. He usually knew how these arrangements worked out and he sincerely hoped that one of the men wouldn't mind sharing for a night.
Giselle's hands busied themselves opening his shirt. Then they were replaced by her mouth, licking and nuzzling at the tanned skin. A soft high mewling noise issued from her throat and Sparrow threaded his fingers through her brown hair. He caressed the soft locks with an almost idle compliancy but stopped when she bent her head to suckle a dark nipple. His hands froze for an instant, then cupped her chin and brought her head back up to meet his eyes.
He stroked her cheek. "Not that I don't appreciate it, but why the rush? Surely Madame has you trained better than that. I don't mean to criticize your technique.well, perhaps I do.but to my knowledge, it's customary to keep the paying pockets entranced for as long as possible."
Giselle seemed to take no notice of his words and instead purred, "But I've missed you for so very much, Jacques."
"Indeed. How long was I gone at sea?"
"A month."
"A week and a half."
"Oui." The word was a moan from the impatient Giselle, who had no longer been listening to him and had once more fastened her mouth to various parts of his anatomy. Sparrow didn't try to stop her and continued to talk.
"You keep this up, and I'm not going to last. And I've been trying to get you to stop, but you won't listen. Which makes me think you're after something. Can I ask, Giselle, has business been doing badly these last couple of days?"
For only a moment, Giselle's movements faltered but she recovered admirably. Sparrow, however, was perceptive, and noticed. In a softer voice, he added, "I am right, aren't I?"
"Vous homme putréfié! Vous pensez que vous êtes si futé," she exclaimed violently and her voice quivered.
"That's hardly fair now, Giselle. You cannot expect me to converse in French. You'll have to repeat it. In English this time."
She shook her head and shut her eyes hard enough that little lines appeared around her eyelids. Her voice when she spoke was lower, no longer as girlish as it had been before. "It's not any of your business."
"You try not to feel slighted when you've become just another number on a list. Tell me, what's the goal for tonight? Ten? Twenty?" He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Even you can't be that ambitious. What am I?" Sparrow asked and counted on his fingers. "Seven? Twelve?" The last number took a little bit of a fancy hand-waving to convey.
"Jacques, you are drunk," Giselle interjected and felt the lessening of a tension in her body she hadn't even been aware of. It was then that she noticed that Sparrow's behavior had been queer tonight, as though it was not the man himself, but a stranger that had taken the place of the Captain that she remembered so well. She had always known that Sparrow was an intense man with a fine sense of humor and a flair for weaving tales. But this apparition had a thicker ring of kohl around the eyes (lending a menacing look to the face) and possessed a wilder, reckless grin (she hadn't recalled him having so many gold teeth).
Sparrow certainly must have drunk deep into his cups to arrive at the state that he was at. "Mon petit loup," Giselle cried, feeling a sudden rush of fondness and pity for the bedraggled pirate (she saw now how worn his clothes were and how limply his hair hung around his face). "Let your Giselle take care of you! All will be right in the morning." In her sudden emotional outpouring, she grasped his face in her hands and gathered it to her chest.
"'fraid not," Sparrow happily answered, his voice muffled by flesh and cloth. "This is more of a.um.permanent arrangement." He relaxed in the physical pleasure of being pressed against Giselle's best-loved assets for another moment until the novelty wore off. Then he grew restless and said, "You can let go now, woman, before I suffocate on your cologne."
Giselle did so and beamed at him, her good humor restored. She batted her eyelashes coyly, once more putting on her paramour airs. "If you weren't up for it tonight, darling, you should have just said so. I needn't have told Madame that I've wanted a room open."
"You would have laughed."
"Of course not." Then she reconsidered and giggled. "Perhaps just a little."
Sparrow tilted his head and regarded her. "Everyone laughs at Mad Captain Jack." He scratched his head, a little in confusion. "But he knows magic, see?" He made a fist and held it out to the left of him, in front of her eyes.
She peered at it, the lusty woman gone and replaced by an eager child. "What is that?"
"This." He announced rather bombastically and opened his hand, finger by finger. The pinky, ring, middle, and index to reveal. nothing there.
Sparrow watched the expressions flash across Giselle's face (expectationconfusionirritation) and laughed. He watched her weigh options in her mind (laugh it off? slap him? refuse to talk?) and wondered if he knew how transparent she was. If madness lent him the advantage of playing men and women like marionettes, then it was a newfound power that he exploited and relished.
"You might want to fix your dress," he said as she scowled, "because.yes. Well, it's a lovely view from here, but something's showing."
His grin grew broader as she looked down, her glower transforming into muted amazement as she saw the gold glinting between her breasts, balanced precariously above the shadow of her clothes and cleavage. It was a small trinket no bigger than a coin, in the figure of a dainty rose with graceful petals.
Sparrow watched her become enthralled with the knickknack, her pleasure amusing him as much as her earlier anger had. He figured that this dark delight wasn't keen on consistency and flared whenever he saw the effect of his manner and speech on another person. Sparrow knew that he had the heart of a troubadour and liked it just fine, so long as all eyes were on him.
Giselle needn't know that the flower she was currently admiring so ardently was not gold at all, only painted copper. Matter of fact, there actually was an interesting story behind this particular trinket, involving an old woman with more goats than the Good Lord ever intended any living being to have. But Sparrow didn't bother to mention it now, it simply slipped his mind. All for the better really, for it wouldn't hurt Giselle any to have her think she owned something of worth.
And he liked the smile that spread across her features (it was one of his less selfish moments). Giselle was, by all accounts, no great beauty, merely plain-looking, a fact that sometimes could be covered with well- applied rouge and eye shadow. However, there was enough to her to keep the customers coming back, by virtue of her charm and the sincerity of her smile.
Obviously delighted, she threw her arms around the pirate's shoulders and hugged him hard. She was murmuring soft words - "cheri" and "cher coeur" - over and over into his ears and he was fairly sure that they were supposed to be compliments.
He smiled. "Never let it be said that Captain Jack Sparrow is an ungenerous man."
She opened her mouth to speak and was interrupted by a smooth man's voice.
"If the good Captain is feeling free with his purse, perhaps he'd care to try his luck at the table."
Apparently, Sparrow and Giselle's conversation had not gone unnoticed. Sitting at the card table was a finely dressed, handsome man with bronze Mediterranean skin. On the seas, he was known as El Hidalgo, captain of a ship with an unusually long name: La Perra del Mar. Few remembered the full name and the most called it La Perra.
El Hidalgo was a gentleman pirate with a careless charm and a penchant for flattering the ladies. But Sparrow had seen the other side of the man. He remembered a child crying and Hidalgo laughing and virgin blood running like water through those fine hands. Ever since then, he had distrusted the man and El Hidalgo knew it. He grinned at Sparrow, a slow easy smirk, and Sparrow gave him a tight-lipped smile in reply.
"Or perhaps, Jack," El Hidalgo began, and his voice all at once held easy camaraderie and silken poison. The arrogance and confidence of the man was reflected in everything he wore, from the tasseled boots to the red-plumed hat. It was certainly an outfit that would have looked comical on any other person, but flattered El Hidalgo's features perfectly. "You are afraid to gamble, for you might prove as," his mouth twitched in amusement, "impotent at cards as you are with the fairer sex."
"Oh?" Sparrow strutted over to El Hidalgo's seat, one hand stroking at his chin. Abruptly, he leaned down until his face was close to the other man's. "I recall hearing all about your exploits with the lasses."
El Hidalgo's brow furrowed in surprise at the compliment but nonetheless, he looked rather pleased.
"And the lads," Sparrow continued. "Tell me, Spaniard, did you miss me in your bed?"
Anger replaced satisfaction and the hands of El Hidalgo flew as he drew his cutlass. Sparrow was quicker, and his revolver was out and aimed at El Hidalgo's head even as the other's blade was pointed at his throat. "Tut, tut," Sparrow chided, "you sure you'll be wanting to lose such a pretty face in a barroom brawl such as this?"
A loud hearty laugh sounded from one of the other players at the table. Sparrow's curiosity was piqued but he avoided turning around. Only when El Hidalgo had reluctantly resheathed his sword did Sparrow look to see who it was.
Red Corkscrew, a big bear of a man with a shock of violent orange hair, was first mate on The Greyhawk. This lady of the seas was a large ship and her crew was a boisterous one. Corkscrew was no exception. He was hot-blooded and quick to anger but easy to forgive.
He chuckled when he met Sparrow's eye and proclaimed, "Go right 'head, Captain. Yer'll have at least one man who'll back yer right up."
"Don't mind Corkscrew." The fury had disappeared from Hidalgo's face and was once more replaced by that casual blank stare. "He's just upset because he's lost a fortune at the table."
"Damn right I have." Corkscrew collected his pint of beer and stood up. "And don't think I ain't noticed, 'ither," - he tipped the drink jerkily in El Hidalgo's direction, so that liquid sloshed out of the mug - "that most of it's gone into this blackguard's pockets. Now, if yer'll 'cuse me, I plan to get piss drunk with what little money I've got left." Here he pushed past Sparrow and ambled over to the nearest source of alcohol.
Sparrow slid into Corkscrew's abandoned seat and folded his fingers together. He cast a glance around the table. Seated at his right was El Hidalgo, and across from him was a seaman named Mongrel.
Mongrel was an old Chinaman with one eye. The left side of his face was a series of half-healed white scars, souvenirs of a run-in with a great white (or so it was said). His left eye had been gouged out in the process. Mongrel's loyalty lay with the disreputable ship Azarael and the mangy yellow cur that lay by his side, the same one that was responsible for his nickname. It was said that Mongrel was a dirty fighter but no one was particularly eager to test that theory, least of all Jack Sparrow.
The man on his left, a dark stranger with a dark red shirt, a black hat, and white gloves, he did not recognize. The stranger was soft-spoken with a particularly honeyed voice, and his actions were slow and deliberate. The patches of his skin that Sparrow could see were a dark chocolate brown.
"Ah," said Giselle, seeing Sparrow's attention diverted to the stranger. "That one the regulars call Le Noir. But then." She sashayed around Le Noir, her hands weaving into the folds of the man's red shirt. She stroked his shoulders, his chest, all the while looking slyly at Sparrow. "The ladies, we like to call him.Ami." The last word was spoken like a caress.
Sparrow grinned, nonplussed. "Good to meet you, Ami. Hope you're as good at cards as you are with your girls. Hidalgo, lad, the cards please?"
With a flick of the wrist, El Hidalgo passed out the cards among the players. Sparrow felt a genuine delight at reencountering so many dear acquaintances once more.
Hello, Queen of Hearts, what a vixen Your Majesty is! And the King of Clubs, such a violent temper, simply must learn to relax. And here, the greatest knave and jester! The Jack of Diamonds always makes one laugh. Mustn't forget the Ace of Spades. Aye, what an enigma that one is.
But the Ace now wanted to say:
"Ah, Jack. the lunatic, the lover, and the poet are all of imagination compact. One sees more devils than the vast hell can hold; this is the madman."
Sparrow has never gotten along well with the Ace of Spades.
He played and saw all the cards and the hands and missed near everything else. He failed to see the smiles Giselle tossed his way, combined with the scowls of El Hidalgo and Mongrel. He did not see the silent regard with which Le Noir watched him.
He won the first few rounds before his luck turned and Mongrel abruptly began to gain higher hands. The royal suit abandoned Sparrow and left him with the low numbers: the lazy twos, the weary threes, the imprudent fours, and the careless fives.
Mongrel showed his hand: three aces, two queens.
El Hidalgo held a pair of tens.
Le Noir had three sixes.
Sparrow didn't really have much of anything.
As Mongrel collected his winnings, Le Noir leaned in next to him. "You've been awfully lucky," he said, and his voice was low and smooth. "I wonder if that's all there is to it." A white-gloved hand grasped one of Mongrel's shoulders.
Mongrel muttered in his guttural native language. "Your lady of luck," he explained. "She is with me."
El Hidalgo said, "Ami, you are entirely too suspicious."
The white hand withdrew and the game resumed.
Mongrel won the next few games.
After an unusually high hand (royal flush), Le Noir's white hand once more traced its way to Mongrel's shoulders. He flinched and the hand twisted into his clothing at his chest. It extracted a card. An ace.
"Ah," said Le Noir's soft voice as the ace was displayed in one palm. "You been hiding this from us all along?"
Then both of Le Noir's hands clutched Mongrel's neck in a loose embrace. Surprised, Sparrow wondered if Le Noir intended to hug the cheater. But there was a sharp pull. The white hands fluttered together like butterflies, then split apart. Sparrow saw a glittering fine string in between those nimble skeletal fingers. Mongrel's body sagged toward Le Noir.
Then his head rolled off onto the table and faced Sparrow. The cur sat up and howled.
Sparrow leaned over and looked in the dead man's eyes. "Pity that. You shouldn't have tried to trick us, you know. Treachery is the worst sort of sin there is. You cannot imagine how much I hate traitors."
Then he patted Mongrel's head. There was a river of blood staining the table.
After a minute, El Hidalgo laughed. "Here I am sitting with a madman and Death himself. Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Is this a mercy or a torment?" He turned to Sparrow. "Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd, bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell." Then he turned to address Le Noir. "Be thy intents wicked or charitable, thou comest in such a questionable shape.
"Tell me now," he continued, "whether I am to die today or if the pair of you are simply part of my imaginings. Am I to be converted to a faith this late in life?"
"Hidalgo," Sparrow replied, "kindly shut up. You are impossibly long- winded."
Le Noir's answer was as soft and polite as ever. "To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause. And there's the question. Hidalgo, do you wish to die? You've yet to know what dreams the dead have."
"Señor Dios me protege," El Hidalgo said, "I've no wish to die."
"Then by all means, leave. I didn't come for you."
"Captain Sparrow," El Hidalgo tossed a patronizing smile at the man in question, "this I leave to you. With all luck, we shall never meet again." He gave a bow to Giselle and the girls in the corner, followed by a rakish smile. "Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies;
good night, good night."
Then, laughing, El Hidalgo left the cards and his money at the table and walked out of the inn.
"Absolutely lovely, but it's late and I have no idea what the pair of you have just said," cheerfully retorted Sparrow. "Shakespeare's a brilliant lad, but I'm not too fond of his plays."
"Shall we play?" asked Le Noir, shuffling the deck.
"I know you. I've played against you before, out on that island." Sparrow remembered heat and boredom and a bargain made. "I won that time. But you looked different then." There was no hat and Death's skin was pale and white. "I can win again. Have you come to take back what you've given me?"
"That depends on the situation," was Death's response, and he began to deal the cards.
"Ah, but you can't. We're mates now. You've practically given me immortality. Said you'd help me. Matter of fact, I need your help right now." Sparrow looked at his hand: three kings, a five, and a jack. His old friends were back.
"What for?" Death asked, holding a hand of his own. It was disconcerting for Sparrow to see the brim of the hat instead of a face. He liked to watch people's reactions. Or in this case, the reactions of supernatural beings.
"You know why. I need a ship to bring the Black Pearl back." Sparrow was feeling confident. He had watched long enough to know that the cards did not favor Death. Last time, he had won with a low hand.
"I have my ship, The Harbinger. That may help you in your search."
"Ownership papers," Sparrow requested and discarded two cards. Death pulled the papers out of a pocket and placed them on the table.
"And what will you give me in return?" Death tossed all five in his hand down and drew a fresh hand. Sparrow smiled in contentment.
"Same thing as last time," he said, and elaborated with his hands. "Myself."
Sparrow's cards were four kings and a queen.
"We have an accord," Death said, serene and sweet and Sparrow was not at all worried.
The cards were displayed. Death held a straight flush: all hearts. Two, three, four, five, six, seven.
"So," said Sparrow. "I suppose you've won."
"So," said Death. "I suppose I have."
Giselle laughed, loud and joyous. Sparrow had forgotten she was at the table at all. She pulled the hat off Death's face and held Death's chin in one hand. Then she kissed Death on the mouth long and hard.
Death was a woman. She was quite beautiful. Sparrow smirked wryly. There were worst ways to go.
Giselle pranced over to Sparrow, asking him to extend his hands, wrists together and palms up. He acquiesced. She used a length of rope and tied them together, all the while beaming and laughing.
He gave her one last kiss. She tasted like French wine and chocolates.
Then he followed Death to the harbor, where the sea was black at night and The Harbinger was waiting.
***
"My name's not actually Death," Death said.
Sparrow raised an eyebrow. "I suppose you'll tell me it's Virginia?"
"Anamaria," Death corrected. They were in the Captain's chamber of The Harbinger. She walked to the bed and proceeded to toss off some of the blankets and a pillow.
"Since you have gone quite mad, what am I to be doing right now?"
"I'm making you a bed so you can sleep here and not in the crew's quarters," she explained patiently. "This is the first time I've ever won someone in a card game and I'm not quite sure what to do with you. So I'm not going to let you out of my sight. Whatever possessed you to wager yourself?"
"Ah, there, you see, I was quite certain you wouldn't win."
"You are very, very mad." Anamaria cocked her head and examined him. "I've heard stories about you, Captain Sparrow."
That made him smile. "Aye."
Anamaria walked over to him and he noticed that he was barely taller than she. She smelled like of spices from someplace far away. Her eyes looked black in the dark, but they were brown in the candlelight and must have been gold when the sun shone. She rolled up the long right sleeve of his shirt. On the tanned skin was the image of a blue bird in flight. Gently, almost chastely, she leaned down and kissed it.
"You were always my favorite pirate," she said.
Sparrow was not entirely convinced that this young girl was not Death. Nonetheless, he clasped her hand with his tied ones and held them. He watched her, and she looked scared and sad and nothing like the same person who had blithely killed Mongrel. She watched him, and the light of the candle threw his face into intriguing shadows and his presence was overwhelmingly potent and strong. She breathed and it filled her like a fine wine.
She might have fallen in love with him then, because he was crazy and looked good in the candlelight. But she would always deny it later.
She tipped her head up and kissed him on the mouth. He noticed that she did not kiss like most women; her lips were not pliant at all, but demanding. He could feel her tongue, wet and slick between his teeth.
When she drew back, he said softly, "Taking advantage of the situation, are we?"
Anamaria's eyes were unfocused, the pupils lost in irises of black. "Wouldn't be quite right," she murmured, "not to enjoy my prize."
And then her lips were at his neck and his throat and her hands were tugging his shirt off. In that mess of limbs and skin and clothes, Sparrow was tugged closer and closer to the large ornate bed. When he fell, he felt the bedspread pool around his thighs and the smooth wood of the headboard was hard under his head.
He watched her above him as she tied his hands to the bedposts. He watched the dark valleys and corners of her body, the soft mounds of her breasts, the sweat-slick lines of her thighs, and thought that this must be what Death looked like. She was seductive and dark and he loved her then because she must be kin to the Sea, for they were so very alike.
Anamaria was kisses and slow torture, giving Sparrow the sensations he craved but none of the satisfaction. A touch here at the chest, a lick and nip with the teeth at the groin until he twisted upward. She would touch him and then herself, and his hands would clench and struggle at the bonds. She would use her fingers, one by one, and circle between her legs, then into and up. He would die wondering how it felt.
When Anamaria's thighs straddled him as he pumped into her with a rhythm that was both fierce and primitive, a strange discontent settled in his heart. She tilted her head so that her hair cascaded down her shoulders and her neck was suddenly, nakedly, exposed. Sparrow would feel the need to ask a question but he would answer it himself by reaching up so that his nose brushed her jugular vein. He bit the juncture where her neck met her shoulders, bit hard and was surprised to see the skin rip and blood well up.
Anamaria barely flinched and even smiled at him, a look of dazed adoration on her face. All the while, blood trickled down her chest, cutting her torso in half down the middle. Sparrow watched and found his answer.
She was not Death, after all.
She bent her head to kiss behind his ear and he smiled, bitter and disillusioned. And perhaps then, through no fault of her own, she had broken his heart.
Anamaria soon fell asleep, her head pillowed on Sparrow's shoulder and her hair tickling his face. He waited until her breathing was deep and even before untying his hands from the rough rope and the bedpost. He sat up on the bed, folding his fingers together in his lap, and began to think. The light from the candle flickered and was soon out.
***
Giselle always walked near the harbor in the morning when the sun had newly risen. Her keen business sense had told her it was a good way to search for potential customers.
She found a large pile of white sheets behind one of the crates. She went over for a closer look and saw a familiar face. Enlisting the help of one of the stevedores, she had it brought back to her little flat behind The Bleeding Heart.
She took great care to clean the dirty face and comb the messy hair. When Anamaria woke an hour later, she didn't ask any questions.
Anamaria didn't cry, not when she woke up and found herself out of The Harbinger. Not when she realized that her clothes were here but her ownership papers to the ship were missing. She hadn't cried since she was a little girl and she had always suspected that she had forgotten how.
She was grateful when Giselle said nothing but took her hand. She noticed that Giselle wore a beautiful piece of new jewelry. She commented on it, a gold rose tied to a length of rope. It hung high on Giselle's neck and glinted fetchingly in the sun.
"Do you like it?" Giselle asked. "I was planning to stop by the pawn broker's in the evening." She gave a sudden laugh. "I swear the rent becomes higher each day."
Then she asked if Anamaria would like a cup of tea. Anamaria said yes and did not comment on how chipped and faded the ceramic was. Both women sat holding cups of tea, one on a sagging mattress and the other at a wooden table with mismatched legs, each wondering what exactly it was they had lost.
***
Author Notes:
mon cheri- my darling
oui- yes
vous homme putréfié! vous pensez que vous êtes si futé- you rotten man! you think that you are so smart.
mon petit loup- my little wolf
le noir- the black one
ami- friend
señor Dios me protege- God protect me
El Hidalgo is a low-ranking Spanish nobleman and is also the title of Viggo Mortensen's new movie.
A stevedore is a person who helps load ships.
People and ships:
El Hidalgo- La Perra del Mar, La Perra
"The sea bitch" (literally, "the bitch of the sea") La Perra simply means "the bitch"
Red Corkscrew, -The Greyhawk
Mongrel-The Azrael
From www.encyclopedia.com:
Azrael -Azraelaz´rael[Heb.,=help of god], in the Qur'an, angel of death, who severs the soul from the body. The name and the concept were borrowed from Judaism.
For more info, go to:
Le Noir, Ami, Anamaria- The Harbinger
Quotes:
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are all of imagination compact.
One sees more devils than the vast hell can hold;
This is the madman.
-A Midsummer's Night's Dream
Act V, Scene I
Angels and ministers of grace defend us!
Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd,
Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked or charitable,
Thou comest in such a questionable shape
-Hamlet
Act I, Scene IV
To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
-Hamlet
Act III, Scene I
Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies;
good night, good night.
-Hamlet
Act IV, Scene V
***
I think I wrote this whole fic in the hopes that I could then beg the community for a Giselle/Jack/AnaMaria avatar or a Foursome! avatar with the Famous Threesome + AnaMaria. Wishful thinking... :)
What did everyone think of my Original Characters? If you like them, I'll bring them back in another fic or maybe in ALT+F4. My favorite is certainly El Hidalgo. Snarky bastard.
I apologize for any butchering of original character/plot that has occurred. Jack and AnaMaria's meeting was probably more like:
Jack: Wow, look, there's something shiny! Gold!
AnaMaria: What? Where? (looks around frantically)
Jack: (steals AnaMaria's ship) AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
AnaMaria: (waving fist) Damn you to hell, pirate!
But now we all know why Giselle's pissed off at Jack now. Guess she found out the rose wasn't real...
***