All previous disclaimers and warnings still applied.
A/N: I'm still alive and I am not abandoning this story. Not betaed(too lazy), all mistakes are my own (and there are a lot), read at your own caution.
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-Curaco-
They found an old cart in one corner of the room. Its wheels were cracked and slightly ajar, but thankfully they were still in working order. They hailed the coffin, which hopefully weight the same as its monetary value, on top of the cart with moderate effort and covered it with the dusty window curtains
Will had murmured disgruntly through out the process, expressing his displeasure with pointy looks and guttural groans all the way to the door of the warehouse. The former, Jack repaid with his own half-lidded looks, completed with fluttering lashes in wordless dalliance. The latter, however, proved to be most distracting, especially when they were straightened by the combined power of pouting lips and subtle rippling of muscles.
"Jack! Pay attention!" Will kicked him non-too-gently.
He snapped out of his trance, and blinked at the other innocently. It wasn't his fault. Will was the one looking all ruffled and edible after all that heavy lifting. The small patch of skin just above the boy's collar bone was very inviting when it was brushed with such pretty shade of pink. And Will was still panting softly, Jack was beginning to think that it was deliberated.
"Jack."
His name was uttered a little more forceful this time, with the smallest hint of exasperation. Will was watching him with a somewhat weary expression.
"Jack...." Will asked almost hesitantly, "why are you.... why are we doing this?"
He opened his mouth, an excuse already on the tip of his tongue.
"Jack." It was almost a warning. And Will was looking at him in a serious, no none sense kind of way.
Jack didn't like that expression. He didn't want Will to frown and look like Bootstrap Bill. He wanted Will to smile and look like Will.
Will mistook Jack's silence as refusal, shrugged as if convincing himself that it didn't matter and hastily turned his face away. But not fast enough before Jack could see the hurt reflected in those deep brown eyes.
He felt a sharp tug inside his chest. He didn't want to lie to Will. It was not distrust that made him withhold his past from Will.
It was, in all honesty, fear.
His life on Isle de Aves was irreversibly gone and his nemesis dead. He had thought that was enough, enough for him to let go and rest the ghosts of his past. He had wanted to start anew with Will beside him, to finally regain some happiness.
But the past, it would seem, did not want to let him go.
He thought back to the mark on the envelop. He had seen it often in his youth. It was her mark. The mark of a Seer.
But she's dead. And why..... after all this time.
He knew he had been acting distracted and Will had noticed. He had stalled and Will had noticed that also. He could continue with his evasive tactics and Will would continue to notice and angst. It wouldn't be fair to Will and it would undoubtedly put unnecessary strain on their relationship. And when it really came down to it, the fear of losing Will outweighed everything else.
And so Jack decided, however unwillingly, that now was as good a time as any. Even though this was certainly not the best place, and the direct approach was not without variables, Jack supposed that every confession had to have a beginning.
He steeled his resolve and opened his mouth again.
A small noise caught both their attentions. They turned slightly. The first ray of sunrise pierced through the cracks in the wooden door, like sharp needles until they were blocked by a tall figure in grey robe.
Simultaneously, Jack and Will let go of the cart and drew out their respective weapons. Neither of them had heard the man came in and had no idea how long the intruder had been there. The man moved forward, silent as a ghost. Jack's hand tightened on the handle of his pistol, finger rested rigidly on the trigger.
The figure stopped a short distance away. The grey robe shifted as a gloved hand emerged from beneath the dense layers of fabric. Blue sparks danced on the tip of the leather covered fingers.
Jack's eyes widened. His head jerked around and met Will's eyes for one brief moment. The next second, they jumped apart and dodged in opposite directions just as a surge of lightening was sent their way.
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Will was getting angry. He didn't relinquish being chased around like some lowly, common criminal. His brain, in its usual untimely fashion, pointed out that pirates were indeed considered as lowly criminals, but Will could most assuredly take comfort in the knowledge that his pursuer was anything but common. Will mentally gave his brain the death glare before leaned against a fruit stand and huffed tiredly, busy supplying the oxygen desperately needed by his body.
It was already late morning and the streets were getting crowded. He and Jack had hoped to lose whoever it was in the chaotic maze otherwise known as the Curaco residential district. They had almost succeeded only to turn and find the shadowy figure a few steps behind, tailing them in a steady pace, like a predator patiently stalking its prey. So in a rather pathetic showing of decision making skills, they had changed their tactics and dove into the massive market place.
And now, they themselves were quite lost.
He tilted his head towards Jack, and was pleased to notice, in a sadistic sort of way, that he was not the only one out of breath. "You wouldn't happen to have any ideas as to why he's after us.... other than the obvious one."
Jack blinked innocently, "errr.... no?"
Will rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We've left the coffin in the warehouse, so why is he still chasing us? He didn't look like a smuggler, and I am sure those doesn't shoot lightening out of their hands."
Jack muttered something about judging a book by its cover and Will pointedly ignored him. "Are you sure you don't recognize him? You hadn't been borrowing money from weird people, or groping any innocent girl with an angry father, or-"
Jack cut in before he could finish, "it's not my fault that I always attract the most unsavory characters."
"Of course it's your fault. Birds of a feather flock together." was Will's response.
To which, Jack countered with a stilted gasp, "such... needless cruelty."
"Well, you are the one who dragged us into this." Will reasoned.
"But it is a gold coffin." Jack put extra emphasis on the word 'gold' and winked at Will impishly.
Will sighed for the hundredth time and let the silly argument drop. "Whatever you say." He looked around them, "which way do we go?"
"That way." Jack motioned with his hand. Upon Will's apprehensive expression, he offered a small grin, "the air smelt of sea that way."
The crowd was thinning after the morning rush and Will realized that lingering would only expose them faster. He felt Jack's hand wrapped around his own and answered it with a soft squeeze.
He turned and was almost tripped over when someone roughly bumped into him. Jack tensed beside him and his hand went up immediately to fend off his assaulter.... only he couldn't.
In his arms was a sniveling mass of grey.
He took a step backward and tried to loosen his arms, but the.... person in his arms only followed him and continued to cling desperately at him. Faintly he heard the sound of crying. Will coughed self-consciously and spared a glance at Jack, who was absorbing the scene in front of him with an unreadable expression.
Will looked down and met a tear-streaked face. Through the masses of dirty tangling rugs and hair, he could make out a face. The face was unfamiliar to him, but it was young even though the hair surrounded it was an ashen white.
He studied the face harder. A girl obviously.... no more than a teenager. White hair, heart shaped face, golden eyes......
Wait.
Golden eyes.
Then realization hit him.
"T-Tisha!"
Tisha sobbed harder at his recognition and burrowed her face into his chest. Instinctively, his arms tightened and held her more firmly.
He didn't catch the wince on Jack's face.
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-Port Royal-
The little dog had trotted over to the other side of the bars as soon as the commodore left. It was sitting motionlessly as always and watching him with big brown eyes. Apparently, the mascot of the Port Royal dungeon had become quite fond of him and Zeke had to suffer most of his waking hours in its company.
It was fluffy and cute, so naturally he hated it.
He hissed at it, deliberately showing his fangs. The dog stayed, keys dangled from its half opened mouth. He reckoned that if he moved fast enough, he could probably snatch the keys away before the dog could react.
He didn't want to. He didn't want to move at all.
Zeke was drowsy, strangely tired even though he hadn't moved from the same spot for quite some time. He also smelled. Normally it wouldn't have bothered him much. Being a pirate tended to drive out most of one's good hygiene habits. Fresh water was rare, reserved for drinking and not bathing every high noon. He was used to constantly having a layer of dirt covering his body by now.
It wasn't the prison cell neither. Although he had to admit that he was somewhat surprised by the over-all reception. The commodore must really despised him, and that, for some unfathomable reasons, made he feel a little.... choked.
He shook his head slightly. Wisps of red hair wiped around lifelessly, weighted down by dust and grease. He ran one hand through the entangled mess in an effort to comb through them, and peeked at the dog from the corner of his eyes. It was trying to get closer, pressing its wet nose between the bars and barked a few times.
He rolled his eyes, "go away."
The dog barked some more, taking his brisk instruction as encouragement. Its tongue hanged out, and the ring with the keys dropped onto the ground with a soft click.
He eyed them suspiciously for a few seconds, before swapped his hand impatiently against the air in front of him. The chains jerked soundly with each movement.
"Go away.... before I cook you in a stew."
The dog ignored the dawning threat in his voice, instead wriggled its tail excitedly, putting both of its front paws against the bars, then bent down and nudged the keys toward him with its nose. He closed his eyes, trying to filter out the distracting moaning and panting of the annoying animal.
He was not mellowing in self-pity, he told himself stubbornly. He was not.
He was.... regrouping. Yeah, that was what he was doing. The uncertainty of his situation was excruciatingly perpetual, and he was simply feeling.... lost.
He knew that he didn't want to go home. He wasn't concerned about the awaiting punishment, he had grown quite immune to them a long time ago. After all, practice made perfect. But his future in the human world was looking rather bleak, and soon to be over as confirmed by the commodore's visit.
The only thing was that he wanted to stay.
No. That wasn't right.
Something..... something was keeping him here, not in a physical sense, but in a obscure way that bind him and prevented him from moving on.
Something he missed.
Of course, Zeke was always missing things, but this was different. It was important, like a crucial piece of the puzzle, something that he had to find, something that would give him the completion and emancipation he needed.
A score to settle perhaps?
But with whom?
Or what?
It couldn't be about Jack, Zeke had wholeheartedly given up on ever stealing Jack's soul. Besides Jack wasn't too upset about his deception, not to mention he saved Will, which seemed to had placated the pirate captain well enough. And he hadn't made that many enemies during his stay on the mortal plane, not anyone that was still alive anyway.
Unless..... he counted Norrington.
Commodore Norrington, the object of his current frustration.
He could tell that the commodore was troubled as well. He had felt the small tingling of irritation as soon as the other stepped through the door.
What's wrong with him? I thought he would have looked happier, with me about to get intimately acquainted with the gallows and all that.
It had been over two months since he was dumped into this stinking cell, and he was still no way near figuring out the reason for Norrington's continued survival. At first, he had foolishly reasoned with himself by explaining that the dagger's magic was delayed. As for why, he didn't know. He assumed it had something to do with luck, which seemed to had been distributed rather generously among a disturbingly large number of people he encountered. But whatever the reason was, he thought that if he only had patience and waited a bit longer, the commodore would eventually die and he would be.... satisfied. However, with their every protracted meeting, Norrington was looking better and healthier. It was as if his presence did not aggravate the wounds, but instead was having the exact opposite effect.
Zeke was ready to pull his hair out.
Furthermore, the lack of progress was accentuating his burgeoning sense of failure. Nothing had gone according to plan, and ever since he stepped aboard the Black Pearl, he had taken a straight nose dive down the self-confidence scale.
Why can't I do anything right?
He had been nothing but demure and conscientious in his duty as a destroyer of all that was good and righteous. Granted, he was never very good at what he did, but it wasn't all his fault. Bad luck, or some sort of creepy divine intervention had followed him everywhere and kept on ruining everything.
But still more quailing was the thought that even his weapon, his own trusted creation could let him down.
Everything Zeke made had some kind of magical properties. It was a natural talent of his and provided him with a advantageous edge in most situations. Weapons were one of his specialties, but not everything he made were destructive. The effects varied depending on their intended purposes.
But now he had managed to mess up the only thing that he was actually good at. It was like losing an important part of himself, a part which had always defined him, anchored him and assured him that he wasn't completely useless.
The recent turn of event had made him doubt his creation, his ability and even worse, himself.
The only other time, or rather, person, who was able to do that, was Ramirez. And he did NOT want to recall what happened with Ramirez.
He buried his face between his folded arms. The air was saturated with almost retching depression, borderlining on paranoia. Zeke felt trapped, the walls enclosed around him like a penitentiary. Grudgingly, he raised his face toward the ceiling.
Then something cold and hard hit him square on the forehead.
His head reeled back instinctively, and connected with the wall behind him with a loud thud. An involuntary croak escaped his lips before he clamped them shut. With jaws clenched and teeth gritted tightly, his body trembled in a spastic state of pain.
A dry voice half laughed and half announced, "well, that got your attention."
His head snapped up, a curse half way out of his mouth, and eyes roaming the room in search of his attacker. Stood on the other side of the bars, behind the little dog, was a young man.
The keys cluttered noisily, fell into Zeke's lap and then onto the ground. His eyes narrowed, one hand rubbing the bruise which would no doubt be forming, and with the other hand, he gingerly pushed himself off the ground.
In a soft and polite tone, the man greeted, "Ezekiel, I presume."
Zeke scowled darkly. His hands darted out between the bars, intending serious bodily harm.....only to went right through said body.
Pain swept over his arms as sudden as a violent tempest. He gasped, extracted his arms and fell rather gracelessly on his behind. His arms hurt. He looked down; there were burn marks trailing from the tips of his fingers to the end of his elbows.
Magic. He realized shakily. White magic.
The man smiled, "you are as brash as rumored."
His back stiffened, the peals of shock was being drowned by the thundering of his own heart.
The other calmly continued, "I have a proposition for you."
With a few deep breaths, Zeke managed to collect himself and focused the heat of his glare on the stranger.
"Who the hell are you!?" He demanded.
"Ray," the man's smile widened, "my name is Ray."
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Just for laughs - what would happen if Zeke went to Hogwart?
SortingHat: Hmmm....let's see. I don't think you have the brain power to be in Ravenclaws and your very nature pretty much goes against every Gryffindor value there is. But you are certainly hardworking....Hufflepuff perhaps?
Zeke: WHAT?! How dare you! I demand to be put in Slytherian!
SortingHat: Sorry, dear. You are hardly Slytherian material.
Zeke: What the hell is that suppose to mean?! I'll make you eat those words. You WILL sort me into Slytherian or I'll KILL you!
SortingHat: ......I'm a hat.
Zeke: ......DAMNIT!
SortingHat: I think I've proven my point.