It wasn't the old Jack Sparrow.
But hell, he was close enough. It was as if Jack's mind had been transplanted into someone else's, mixing the two different parts. He was definitely not entirely sane now - more than just the drunken stumbling and the odd, much-loved grin, he would mutter to himself and glance behind him as if he thought someone was there, and he would always finger his pistol.
But he was still there, farther down in him than Will would have liked. His old Jack was still there, and was surfacing more and more.
A night four days from the island, they were eating dinner at the wheel - Jack was drinking dinner, rather, and Will was staring at his food, occasionally picking up an apple, taking a bite, and tossing it overboard. Jack had been silent for some time, and then he said quietly, "It isn't like the old times, Will."
Will nodded in agreement.
"I mean, I remember what I used to be like. I remember what you used to be like. We were happy, m'boy. We could have ridden the winds forever. Really bad eggs," and he muttered the last bit as if to himself. "But things've happened, haven't they?" Will bowed his head and didn't answer. "I'm sorry, Will. I'm sorry."
There was another silence. "I don't want it to be so God-damned IdifferentI, Will."
"You think I do?" Will whispered, looking up with red eyes. "You think I can help being like this? You think I enjoy it?"
"You bloody well know that's not what I meant," Jack said quietly. "You always look at me accusingly, Will. You look at me like it's my fault. Like I had killed her, like I had taken your son away from you. While all this was happening, I was sitting on a godforsaken island with a pistol to my head! And even if you never got any of the letters I wrote, I'll bet you didn't write to me after she died!"
Will didn't have an answer to this for some time. He stood finally, setting his empty plate on the ground, and moved so that only the wheel was between him and Jack. But his eyes were not angry, not exactly.
"Why didn't you kill yourself?" he asked - and his voice was remorseful, but without a shred of malice. He wasn't angry with Jack. He was only wondering.
"I tried," Jack hissed back, unable to be as calm as the other man, unable to keep anger out of his voice. "I sat there, and I thought of you and Elizabeth and James, thinking you were all safe and sound at home, and I knew that you were never going to write to me or even think of me, and I pulled the trigger, Will! I pulled it! And then I found out that bloody Eldred didn't leave me with a single shot, he left me with an empty pistol. Filthy bastard!" And he spat, and Will sat down slowly, his eyes wide. He buried his face in his hands for a moment, gripping his dark hair and shaking slightly.
***
Tales of the lost years/ And days so long past/ Told with new-found tears/ And heartache that lasts.
***
"I wasn't there," he said at last. "When she died. James - he kept crying for her, crying for Mama, and he tried over and over again to go over to her bedside. But I couldn't let him, Jack. I couldn't let him see her at all. And I couldn't touch him. I had the fever too, but it wasn't as bad yet, then. I'd caught it from caring for her. So I had to keep him away from both of us, and it was so damn hard. When the doctor came, and told me that she had it much worse than I did, but that James was still all right, I asked him to take James over to the Browns. Until it was over, you know - they had escaped catching the fever somehow and I knew they would care for him for us. And they did. But the doctor came again, and told me she was likely not to make it, and if I kept caring for her it would only make my own fever worse. I told him I didn't care. I told him I wanted to stay with her. And he asked me if I wanted to leave my son an orphan." He was crying, tears were running down his cheeks and Jack was watching him with a terrible sorrow in his eyes. "It was then that it hit me. Elizabeth was going to die and there was InothingI that I could do. Nothing at all. So what was I supposed to do, Jack? I had no idea what to do. And so I went to her bedside, one last time, and found out that she'd woken up. We spoke together, and I kissed her one last time, and she told me that when the doctor had been examining her he'd found out that she was pregnant. Almost two months pregnant. She'd miscarried once after James, and she told me she would try to hold on, for the baby. But I think we both knew that even if she did survive it, by some miracle or another, the fever would have killed the baby. She died the next night, alone."
Jack steadied the wheel and moved over to sit down next to Will. He didn't speak, only watched him, and after a long time put a hand on his shoulder, and then Will sobbed into his shoulder and Jack let him, silently, because what kind of a brother wouldn't?
***
All we lost/ Those years ago/ Comes back to us/ Comes back to us.
***
"So how old are you, boy?"
James started. He had thought that Anamaria was asleep - she had been leaning back against the bars, still and silent for some time.
"Fourteen," he answered her quietly.
"That's right. I remember captaining the ship when Jack went to see you. To think of this miracle in Eldred's hands makes me seethe, I can tell you. Jack always said that the Black Pearl was freedom, but Hell take me if this don't look so much like freedom."
James glanced miserably around the brig and nodded.
"So, how long has it been?"
He blinked at her.
"How long since you came down here? I know you count, everyone does at first."
"Twelve days," he answered numbly.
"You'll lose track after a while," she told him, turning so that her face was resting against the front bars again and her arms were stretching out - she was examining her hands closely. "It's already been hard to tell, eh? When they open it up, you wonder if this is dinner from one day or breakfast from the next?"
He nodded, mute. He wasn't sure, actually - it could have been thirteen, or eleven days, or more or less - but it was at leasst a week and a half and no more than two. That much, he could be relatively sure of. They had taken Anamaria out, sometimes, onto deck, and she never spoke of what they did on deck, of how it felt to be out in the fresh air, and James never asked. They talked, perhaps twice a day, perhaps more or less, and she would sing under her breath, Drink up, me mateys, yo ho, making even the vilest, most inappropriate song sound beautiful, sometimes sharing with him the background of the song whether he wanted to know or not.
One of them was one his mother had made up for the Pearl's crew, Anamaria said, and she would sing that when he asked her to, her voice slow and rich.
They gave scraps of meat, and bread, and even though the captain had said any rum they felt like sharing, it was always Anamaria the men gave the rum to, and nothing to James, and when they were gone Anamaria would stretch her arm across and toss him the rum. Once he had missed, and it had landed on the floor just out of reach, and he and Anamaria had both apologized endlessly to each other.
And James found that Anamaria was right. A few days later, or perhaps only a couple days, or a week, he found he had lost count of the days entirely.
But hell, he was close enough. It was as if Jack's mind had been transplanted into someone else's, mixing the two different parts. He was definitely not entirely sane now - more than just the drunken stumbling and the odd, much-loved grin, he would mutter to himself and glance behind him as if he thought someone was there, and he would always finger his pistol.
But he was still there, farther down in him than Will would have liked. His old Jack was still there, and was surfacing more and more.
A night four days from the island, they were eating dinner at the wheel - Jack was drinking dinner, rather, and Will was staring at his food, occasionally picking up an apple, taking a bite, and tossing it overboard. Jack had been silent for some time, and then he said quietly, "It isn't like the old times, Will."
Will nodded in agreement.
"I mean, I remember what I used to be like. I remember what you used to be like. We were happy, m'boy. We could have ridden the winds forever. Really bad eggs," and he muttered the last bit as if to himself. "But things've happened, haven't they?" Will bowed his head and didn't answer. "I'm sorry, Will. I'm sorry."
There was another silence. "I don't want it to be so God-damned IdifferentI, Will."
"You think I do?" Will whispered, looking up with red eyes. "You think I can help being like this? You think I enjoy it?"
"You bloody well know that's not what I meant," Jack said quietly. "You always look at me accusingly, Will. You look at me like it's my fault. Like I had killed her, like I had taken your son away from you. While all this was happening, I was sitting on a godforsaken island with a pistol to my head! And even if you never got any of the letters I wrote, I'll bet you didn't write to me after she died!"
Will didn't have an answer to this for some time. He stood finally, setting his empty plate on the ground, and moved so that only the wheel was between him and Jack. But his eyes were not angry, not exactly.
"Why didn't you kill yourself?" he asked - and his voice was remorseful, but without a shred of malice. He wasn't angry with Jack. He was only wondering.
"I tried," Jack hissed back, unable to be as calm as the other man, unable to keep anger out of his voice. "I sat there, and I thought of you and Elizabeth and James, thinking you were all safe and sound at home, and I knew that you were never going to write to me or even think of me, and I pulled the trigger, Will! I pulled it! And then I found out that bloody Eldred didn't leave me with a single shot, he left me with an empty pistol. Filthy bastard!" And he spat, and Will sat down slowly, his eyes wide. He buried his face in his hands for a moment, gripping his dark hair and shaking slightly.
***
Tales of the lost years/ And days so long past/ Told with new-found tears/ And heartache that lasts.
***
"I wasn't there," he said at last. "When she died. James - he kept crying for her, crying for Mama, and he tried over and over again to go over to her bedside. But I couldn't let him, Jack. I couldn't let him see her at all. And I couldn't touch him. I had the fever too, but it wasn't as bad yet, then. I'd caught it from caring for her. So I had to keep him away from both of us, and it was so damn hard. When the doctor came, and told me that she had it much worse than I did, but that James was still all right, I asked him to take James over to the Browns. Until it was over, you know - they had escaped catching the fever somehow and I knew they would care for him for us. And they did. But the doctor came again, and told me she was likely not to make it, and if I kept caring for her it would only make my own fever worse. I told him I didn't care. I told him I wanted to stay with her. And he asked me if I wanted to leave my son an orphan." He was crying, tears were running down his cheeks and Jack was watching him with a terrible sorrow in his eyes. "It was then that it hit me. Elizabeth was going to die and there was InothingI that I could do. Nothing at all. So what was I supposed to do, Jack? I had no idea what to do. And so I went to her bedside, one last time, and found out that she'd woken up. We spoke together, and I kissed her one last time, and she told me that when the doctor had been examining her he'd found out that she was pregnant. Almost two months pregnant. She'd miscarried once after James, and she told me she would try to hold on, for the baby. But I think we both knew that even if she did survive it, by some miracle or another, the fever would have killed the baby. She died the next night, alone."
Jack steadied the wheel and moved over to sit down next to Will. He didn't speak, only watched him, and after a long time put a hand on his shoulder, and then Will sobbed into his shoulder and Jack let him, silently, because what kind of a brother wouldn't?
***
All we lost/ Those years ago/ Comes back to us/ Comes back to us.
***
"So how old are you, boy?"
James started. He had thought that Anamaria was asleep - she had been leaning back against the bars, still and silent for some time.
"Fourteen," he answered her quietly.
"That's right. I remember captaining the ship when Jack went to see you. To think of this miracle in Eldred's hands makes me seethe, I can tell you. Jack always said that the Black Pearl was freedom, but Hell take me if this don't look so much like freedom."
James glanced miserably around the brig and nodded.
"So, how long has it been?"
He blinked at her.
"How long since you came down here? I know you count, everyone does at first."
"Twelve days," he answered numbly.
"You'll lose track after a while," she told him, turning so that her face was resting against the front bars again and her arms were stretching out - she was examining her hands closely. "It's already been hard to tell, eh? When they open it up, you wonder if this is dinner from one day or breakfast from the next?"
He nodded, mute. He wasn't sure, actually - it could have been thirteen, or eleven days, or more or less - but it was at leasst a week and a half and no more than two. That much, he could be relatively sure of. They had taken Anamaria out, sometimes, onto deck, and she never spoke of what they did on deck, of how it felt to be out in the fresh air, and James never asked. They talked, perhaps twice a day, perhaps more or less, and she would sing under her breath, Drink up, me mateys, yo ho, making even the vilest, most inappropriate song sound beautiful, sometimes sharing with him the background of the song whether he wanted to know or not.
One of them was one his mother had made up for the Pearl's crew, Anamaria said, and she would sing that when he asked her to, her voice slow and rich.
They gave scraps of meat, and bread, and even though the captain had said any rum they felt like sharing, it was always Anamaria the men gave the rum to, and nothing to James, and when they were gone Anamaria would stretch her arm across and toss him the rum. Once he had missed, and it had landed on the floor just out of reach, and he and Anamaria had both apologized endlessly to each other.
And James found that Anamaria was right. A few days later, or perhaps only a couple days, or a week, he found he had lost count of the days entirely.
