To Love and Protect

Chapter 19

"You're certain there's no sign of him?"  Hallson leaned forward, his fists planted firmly on the desk, staring hard at the officer in front of him.

"Aye, sir.  I took the Defender over all his normal haunts and routes within quick range.  The man's too intelligent to be that predictable, sir.  Wherever he is, we won't find him by going where he should be."

"That's assuming you wish to find him at all, something I'm beginning to doubt, Captain."  Michael snarled the words, pacing along the side of the room.

Jenkin just barely turned his head, gazing at the mercenary while still keeping his commander in his peripheral vision.  "I resent the implications of your statement."

"Resent them all you like.  I don't think you're even looking for the boy."  Sparrow and Lanebridges had been gone for four days now, making the likelihood of finding them without some sort of guidance about the same as that of pigs falling from the sky.

"If I had been informed immediately that Captain Lanebridges had taken the prisoners on board the Intrepid, perhaps we wouldn't have been so far behind in to begin with."

"Is it my fault this rathole is infested with traitors?"

"Michael, that will be more than enough.  Captain Jenkin has proved his loyalty many times in the past.  He is not on trial here, nor are my men."

"Sir, he . . .I couldn't well sound the alarm when I wasn't even conscious!"

"I still say the likelihood that you tripped over your own two feet is just as great as the likelihood that some unknown person hit you over the head and shoved you down the staircase."  The captain stared disdainfully at the mercenary, a small sneer tugging at his upper lip.  "I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to hit you."

"Jenkin, that will be more than enough from you, as well.  Bickering amongst ourselves is not going to make the man simply appear!"  Hallson emphasized the point by slamming both hands down flat on the desk before straightening.

"What if I don't wish to have any part of this anymore?"  Michael knew immediately that it was the wrong thing to say.  Jenkin froze in a perfect attention posture, his well-honed military survival instincts schooling his expression into complete impassiveness as the commodore rounded on the mercenary.

"What?"  Hallson's left hand was twitching at his side, and Michael thanked the god he truly didn't believe in that the man didn't wear his pistol on that side.

"I want the money you owe me and I want out."  The thing was already started.  He might as well push on.

"You are still under contract.  You won't see a bloody pound until I have Sparrow's body in hand.  If you wished to leave anyway . . .well, I'm sure you know where the door is."  Michael hesitated a moment.  He wanted his money . . .but he valued his life more, and becoming embroiled in military power squabbles was not a good way to safeguard his head.

Before he could decide if he wished to leave Hallson spoke again.

"However, I don't make any guarantees about the . . .friendliness . . .of my men should you decide to leave before fulfilling your contract."

The mercenary fought the urge to snarl as he nodded stiffly.

Jenkin relaxed slightly, a faint grin on his face as he glanced at the mercenary before turning his full attention to his commander.

"Sir, I'd like permission to properly re-provision the Defender.  She isn't going to be going anywhere with a half-starved crew and little water."

"Granted.  Go and see to your ship.  I'll send for you when I determine what course of action we should take."

"Aye, sir."  Michael continued to stare at the floor as the captain exited.  The mercenary's jaw was clenched so tightly it almost hurt.

"Michael."

"Aye?"  Michael raised his gaze slowly.

"You will get your money and I will get my ship and my prisoners.  Don't worry."

"Why should I worry?  Just because you let a captain who's still little more than a bloody whelp just sail away with your prisoners . . .have you heard what Sparrow does to people who betray him?"

"If you mean the tales of what he did to Barbossa, yes, I have.  I find them rather . . .entertaining.  Surely you don't believe he really plucked out the man's eyes to feed to the monkey and ate the brain himself."

"Whatever he did, Barbossa is just as dead.  As for me . . .I didn't just betray him, oh no, I sank his bloody damned ship that he loved, killed his crew, and branded his woman!  He's a better swordsman than me, Frederick.  I know it, you know it, he knows it . . .He knows my tricks now.  He'll be ready."

"Knowing about a poison doesn't make it any less effective.  You will do what needs to be done."  Hallson turned away, pacing slowly over to the window.  "Oh . . .and don't forget, you killed one of his closest friends, as well."

Michael sighed, dropping his gaze back to the floor again.  "Turner."

"The Royal Navy protects those who serve her well.  As for Lanebridges being little more than a whelp . . .well, then, he must be one of the smartest, luckiest whelps in the world, mustn't he?  Now, where would you go if you were him?"

"I have no idea.  You're Navy . . .you know where he'd go better than I would."

"You see, that's the problem.  I think he's intelligent enough to know not to go somewhere I would go looking for him . . .unless of course he assumes I wouldn't look there and thus that it is safest to go where I would go looking for him."

The mercenary fought the urge to scream.  This was going to be a long discussion at this rate.

"You think Johnson is infested with traitors, do you?"  Hallson was still facing away from the mercenary, apparently watching the sky through the window with rapt interest, his left hand still twitching spasmodically at his side.

"There has to have been someone helping the boy, and Turner had to stay somewhere while they plotted.  I sincerely doubt we could have missed his staying in the fort proper."

"Yes, that's true.  So where would he run?  Fresh out of danger, a child and his wife to protect, another child he feels he should save . . .where would he run?"

Michael bit back the sharp retorts that immediately sprang to his lips.  Turner had been well known and well liked.  There were probably over a dozen places he could have stayed.  "I don't know."

"I think he would run to the man with the best connections . . .the best ability to surreptitiously slip into and out of the fort without drawing suspicion . . .the best chance of understanding . . ."

Hallson paused, and Michael realized belatedly that a reply was expected.  "Who do you think he stayed with, sir?"

"I think he stayed with Robert Markson."

"Who?"  The name didn't even ring the whisper of a bell.

"Robert Markson.  The other blacksmith that Turner shares a shop with."  Hallson spun around abruptly.  "And who do you think it's most likely ex-Captain Lanebridges would have told about his future plans?"

If the man truly was intelligent, no one, but humoring the commodore seemed the best thing to do at the moment.  "Robert Markson."

"That's what my suspicion is, too.  I'd need to have him brought in quietly, of course . . .there's already enough unrest over this whole mess Lanebridges has created . . .but if I provide the man, can you make him sing as eloquently as the woman did?"

"Aye.  If you provide the man, I can provide the information."

"Good.  I take it that means that you've decided to continue our professional acquaintance?"

"Aye, Commodore.  It appears I'll be staying on a bit."  Not that he wished to . . .it was just the safest, most profitable choice at the moment.

"I'm very pleased to hear that.  You won't regret it, either.  Not at all."

Michael grimaced as he turned and left.

He had this sinking feeling he was going to regret everything that he had done since he heard of Frederick Hallson.

He just hoped the ultimate culmination of his fears would be far, far in the future.

                                    *                                   *                                   *

The cold was the first thing he noticed.  It wasn't the deep, bone-chilling numbness he had felt before, just a faint chill, but it was more than enough of a reminder of all that had happened.

All that had happened . . .

Where was Ana-Maria?  She was supposed to keep the cold and the darkness away.

Not that the cold and the darkness were a problem anymore.  Just a little bit of a chill because his lover had disappeared.  That was all it was.

He could always just open his eyes and look for her.  There wasn't any danger that he would see the darkness or death . . .

No danger at all.

No way in Hell was he afraid to look.

Mine, Jack Sparrow . . .far too far gone to command me . . .your life for the whelp's . . .

Jack bolted upright, his eyes snapping open and frantically scanning the small cabin as he pressed his body firmly against the wall.

Was it suddenly colder . . .?

No.

No, he was just being unreasonable, foolhardy, letting an enemy he'd already beaten spook him this badly.

He'd won.  Thanks to Ana-Maria, he'd managed to beat back the darkness, to re-stake a claim to life.

He had a claim to life.

He was alive, disembodied voices in his head be damned.

Maybe he had just managed to finally, irrevocably drive what little sanity he usually courted away.

Or you could be mine . . .

No.  No, he had died twice before, and he knew this was living.  He welcomed it with open arms.

He would be damned before he surrendered his sanity, either.

All he needed to do was get up, go find Ana-Maria or someone else, talk to them, reground himself . . .

Standing didn't seem to take any more effort than usual, and the world was actually staying relatively steady, the rocking of the ship with the waves a comforting feel beneath his feet, even if it didn't match the rhythm that the Pearl held . . .had held . . .

Nothing seemed to be screaming in protest at the movements, either.  He felt pretty good for a man who had been dead not that long ago.

Very good for a man who had been dead not that long ago . . .

Too good . . .?

Far too far gone . . .

Jack shook his head, silencing the whispering without even bothering to decide if it was memory or something else.

He had been dead twice before.  This wasn't any different than those times had been.  Accept the fact, pretend it didn't happen, relive it in all the marvelous detail of his dreams, and eventually forget, only another set of scars to mark the course of his life . . .

Maybe that was the problem.  He had the scar on his hand from when he had broken the Aztec curse, as well as an intimate knowledge of where his sword had entered and exited his chest, the lack of scarring non-inhibitory.  He had the scars from where Will had run him through with Nerla.  He could see them, feel them, if he wished to, know that his body had taken the damage and somehow, miraculously, healed.

There was no evidence this time, though.  Only a hint of cold and the haunting whispers . . .

All he had was his own belief that he had won . . .and everyone kept insisting that his beliefs had a tendency to diverge from reality at critical points.

It didn't matter, though.  It didn't matter at all.  He was alive.

He was alive.

Some kind soul had folded his clothes and placed them in plain sight at the foot of the bed.  A tray with food and a knife and fork occupied the floor in front of them.

It took a bit of maneuvering to get into the pants in the close confines of Brian's personal cabin, but he managed well enough.  His sword and pistol were beneath his pants and on top of his shirt . . .exactly the order he usually donned his clothing, the most important effects to the least important.

His sword and pistol . . .his two most important worldly possessions, the two things that had saved his life on more than one occasion.

Far too far gone . . .

He knew the words were only in his head, a faint shadow of the overpowering claim he had defeated . . .

He had defeated it.

He was alive.

Three times now . . .three times he'd met with Death face-to-face, been claimed, been dead . . .and come back.

How in God's bloody name was that possible?

Far too far gone . . .

Was it possible?

The knife was in his hand before he even realized he'd reached for it.

All he needed was a scratch, just a small one, to prove he was still alive . . .was still human . . .

The cut was swift, clean, the well-honed instrument parting the skin just below the scar he had given himself when freeing himself from Death's grip the first time.

For a moment nothing happened.  There wasn't even pain as he stared at the gash, willing it to bleed, to hurt, to do something to prove he was still alive and human . . .

A faint line of crimson rose slowly and he sighed, releasing the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding.  Flexing his hand caused the line to grow, blood beading at the edges and slowly inching its way down to his wrist.

A soft laugh escaped as he clenched his fist, smearing blood along his fingers and forcing more crimson beads from the shallow nick.

The world had best beware.

Captain Jack Sparrow was still alive and well.

                                    *                                   *                                   *

Will waited as patiently as he could at the door between Brian's personal cabin and the great cabin where he and his family had apparently taken up residence, in all probability thoroughly disrupting shipboard routine.  He had heard Jack moving about, and he wished to give the pirate enough time to get up and dressed if that was his inclination.

He had only woken approximately six hours ago, and was still trying to work out what had happened.  Even just the basic facts would be nice.  Will knew he wasn't anywhere near prepared to tackle what seemed to be a thousand nuances underlining every action that had occurred and every word that had been spoken.

His own memories of what had happened were sketchy at best.  There had been sickness, and pain, and darkness . . .and Jack.  Jack had been there through everything, lending strength, keeping the cold and the dark at bay with his own seemingly indomitable fighting spirit . . .before both Jack and the dark had abruptly vanished.

Not vanished.  Not quite.

Jack Sparrow . . .Captain Jack Sparrow . . .Jack had taken his place.

Jack had died in his place.

What did you say to a man who died for you?

Thank you?

How dare you?

Look what you've done to everyone?

Ana-Maria seemed to be avoiding being with the pirate captain, coming into the cabin, pausing at the door, and either walking away or checking on him for all of maybe forty-five seconds before returning to the deck.  Elizabeth seemed to not only be avoiding Jack, but Will as well.  She had been by his bed when he woke, stayed for a few minutes, and then practically run from the cabin.

Only the children seemed completely unperturbed by what had happened, nearly knocking him down with the zeal of their greeting, eagerly taking him on a swift tour of the ship before Brian called them to order and sent them scurrying on ship's business.

Brian.  There was little change in the young captain's attitude towards him, either.  Perhaps he was a bit more formal and military than usual, but he was also standing on deck on his own ship, with a crew whose loyalty he needed now more than ever.

In fact, the only thing Will might be able to find against the young captain was his choice of ship's surgeon.  The man had seemed to find surviving fatal injury to be a strange and miraculous occurrence.  Francis had used every trick he knew to pry out answers about what had happened, not satisfied until he had heard the entire story of the link, which meant telling the story of the brotherhood, of Almorte, and of the Aztec gold, using scars as supporting evidence.

The blacksmith would never have believed someone could spend a full five minutes poking and prodding a single scar before.  The doctor was never going to get around to actually examining and treating Jack if he was planning on doing the same thing to the pirate.

A soft laugh sounded from the cabin, and Will took that as his cue to enter, a decent enough amount of time having passed.

He knocked briefly before slowly opening the door and slipping through into the somewhat cramped space, freezing in shock and disbelief as he stared at the pirate.

"Jesus, Jack . . ."

"Hello, Will.  So ye really are 'live then, too."  The pirate was grinning his trademark grin, metal flashing, a glint in his eyes that usually spoke of playfulness, of a readiness to banter or duel or some such game . . .

Usually he wasn't holding a knife in one hand as blood slid down the other, though.

"Jack . . .what . . .did you . . ."  Will paused, not certain how to continue, fearing that if he said the wrong thing the pirate might . . .

God above, how many times were things allowed to go wrong before something went their way?

"What?"  The pirate looked down at his hand and grinned even more, if that was possible, flexing his wrist and bringing more blood to the surface, clenching his fist and spreading the blood across his hand.  "This?  This is good.  I'm alive.  You're alive.  This is very good."

A drop of crimson trickled between his fingers and fell to the deck.

"Jack, give me the knife."  The most important thing was to get the knife and his sword away from the pirate.  Then they could deal with whatever he'd done to himself . . .whatever had caused him to do whatever he'd done to himself . . .

"Why?  It isn't bad, Will.  Really.  Just a scratch.  There wouldn't be any reason to make it any deeper."

"Really?  Awful lot of blood for just a scratch, Jack."

The playful light died, though the grin didn't falter at all.  "That's because I've been doin' this."  The pirate proceeded to flex his wrist and hand before clenching his fingers and drawing the hand into a fist, adding more crimson to the growing stain on his hand and wrist.

"Jack, give me the knife."

"Catch it."  The pirate captain tossed the blade into the air, catching it by the handle before Will had moved.

"Not nearly fast enough, lad.  Try again."  This time Jack tossed the knife to the side as he spun it, catching it by the blade between two fingers before tossing it into the air and grabbing it by the handle again.

"Not even going to try to play?  Isn't much fun just t' beat m'self, mate."  The pirate flexed his left hand again, apparently completely unaware of the action.

"Jack, please just give . . .me . . .the knife."

"I ask ye again, lad.  Why?  Is it because you're afraid I'll do this?"  The pirate ran the blade across his left wrist, tossed the handle into his bloody left hand, and ran the blade along his right wrist, denting the skin but not drawing so much as a drop of blood.

"Jack, don't do that."  Will inched closer to the pirate.

"Or maybe this?"  Jack again tossed the handle into his right hand, bringing the edge of the blade up to his neck and gently caressing the skin with it.  The blade paused, pressing into the skin slightly.  "Afraid ol' Jack Sparrow's had one too many tangos with the Lady Death and finally lost it?  Have a—"

Will didn't wait to hear the rest of the sentence.  The unexpected punch caused the pirate to bring both arms up in self-defense.  A moment later Will wrenched the knife out of Jack's hand and tossed it across the cabin.

"Ye hit me."  Jack rubbed slowly at his jaw, his eyes fixed on the ground as he swayed in place.

"We've enough people hunting our blood without you taking shots yourself."  The blacksmith watched the pirate carefully, wary and concerned in nearly equal measures.  Jack didn't seem quite so steady on his feet now.

"Ye hit me."  The pirate repeated the phrase in seeming disbelief as he raised his gaze to meet Will's, the grin gone and his face impassive, unreadable.

No, not unreadable.  It would have been two weeks ago, but it wasn't now.  That slight tightening of his mouth, the way his eyes were drawn together, the dullness of his gaze . . .miniscule changes, all of them, but he knew exactly what they meant now.

God above, he'd hurt the man trying to help him.

"I'm sorry, Jack.  You weren't giving me many options."  Will reached out slowly to touch the other man's arm.

The pirate flinched away from the touch.

"Even your bloody father never hit me."

The blacksmith paused, pulling his hand back, confused by the abrupt change of topic.  "My father . . .?"

"William had the right t' hit me, but he didn'.  If you'd 'ave waited, I was goin' t' say have a bit of faith, but I guess that's too much t' expect."

"Jack, let me see your hand."  Taking care of the pirate physically was far easier than trying to follow his mind games.

Jack snarled, apparently forgetting that he wasn't wearing his shirt and running his bloody left hand over his chest, leaving a line of crimson before wiping the palm on his pants and shoving his hand towards Will.  "This?  You want to see this?  Can you even see it?  It's barely a scratch, William."

Jack was right.  The cut itself was barely a scratch, no deeper than a nick he would receive while reading a book, though at least an inch and a half long.

It wasn't the cut itself that was the problem, though.  It was the fact that the pirate had willfully taken a knife to his own hand with the purpose of drawing blood . . .though the fact that it was shallow was reassuring.

"Why?"

The pirate pulled his hand back abruptly, flexing it again, sending another bead of crimson trickling down his palm.  "I just wanted t' see that I was still alive."

Will opened his mouth to reply, shut it, blinked, and tried again.  "What?"

"I wanted t' see that I was still 'live."  The pirate was swaying again in place.

"Jack, sit down.  Why did you need to see you were alive?"  Jack didn't move except to flex his left hand again.  "Stop that."  Will grabbed his hand and shoved lightly at his chest, sending the pirate down onto the edge of the bed.  "Now, explain to me why you couldn't tell you were alive."

"Cold."  That one didn't need any explanation.  Will remembered the cold well enough on his own.

"Still cold?"  The pirate nodded and shivered slightly.  Will grabbed one of the blankets and sat on the bed next Jack, drawing the other man into an embrace, somewhat surprised that it didn't feel awkward at all.  "Better?"

"Aye."  Jack's body slowly relaxed, the shivering stopping and his breathing deepening and evening.

"Not falling asleep on me, are you, Jack?"

"No, whelp.  Not when you get physically violent, I'm not goin' t'."

"What else, Jack?"

The pirate sighed.  "What else what?"

"What else made you think you weren't alive?"

"Voice . . .in m' head . . .claimed me, she did . . .third time, Will, third time she claimed me."

"You heard voices?"

"Aye.  Mainly what she said 'fore . . .just remembering, I guess, but . . .seemed real enough . . ."  Jack frowned, shifting slightly.  Will used the movement to draw the pirate closer to him, further into the shared body heat.  Jack sighed again, settling down without protest.  "Definitely seemed real enough . . ."

Will nodded, keeping silent.  He knew enough to know that hearing voices was never a good sign, especially when those voices apparently belonged to abstract forces like death.

"Jack, if you ever doubt you're alive again, don't cut yourself.  Come talk to me, or talk to Ana-Maria, or to Elizabeth, or Brian, or even to the children.  Just don't cut yourself."

"How're we both still 'live?"

"What?"

Jack pulled away and turned his head to face the blacksmith, annunciating his words with unnecessary precision.  "How . . .are . . .we . . .both . . .still . . .alive?  I traded my life for yours.  If I'm not dead, why aren't you?"

"You did die.  You stopped breathing, your heart stopped working . . .Jack, you were dead.  You kept your end of the bargain.  Did you ever say how long you were going to stay dead?"

The pirate stared at him for a moment before laughing softly.  "You're makin' accords like Barbossa now, lad.  If it isn't specifically stated, don't take it for granted."

"Only if it works in our favor."

"Aye, of course.  Thanks for warmin' me up."  The pirate attempted to stand, stopping and turning to stare at Will, one eyebrow raised in question.  "That would mean ye can let me go now."

"Did you ever do this before?"

"What?  Crawl into a blanket with another man?  Not since whenever I was awake last and trying to keep you breathing."

"Cut yourself."

The pirate seemed to consider Will for a moment before nodding.  "Aye.  Once.  When I was fifteen, after the world fell apart.  Your father stopped me then."

"Tell me about it?"

"Some other time.  Right now I wish to go see my lover, your wife, and the two lovely children, as well as determine where we are and what port the brilliant Captain Lanebridges is planning on setting me in.  Savvy?"

Will released his hold on the pirate captain and Jack stood, quickly slipping into his shirt before heading for the door.

The blacksmith frowned as he watched the pirate.  There was something wrong with the way he was walking.

"You're limping."

Jack froze, his back still to Will.  "No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not."

"I'm not blind, Jack.  You're limping.  What'd you do to your leg?"

The pirate turned around slowly and shrugged, his grin back in place.  "Me, dear William Turner?  I didn't do a bloody thing to my leg."

Jack turned and left before Will could say anything more.