***Disclaimer: I don't own PotC, sadly... I have much of the mechanics of this story worked out in my mind. I know the main structure of it, so it should progress with a little more purpose now ;-) Although this chapter is shorter, it is a flash... forward (prolepsis I think is the word...) it has more in it than the other longer chapters in terms of significance to the overall plot. So, enjoy and ponder at your leisure!
Jack Sparrow's Black Pear(l): Thank you- I did read your stories! They are very funny. Actually I did not get to review the one about his sock yet, but I will! I once wrote a poem about socks... Anyway, I don't know what I am doing. Maybe I just wrote a lot of funny stuff and now I have different ideas. I don't know! I hope you like this chapter too.
***
Chapter Five
His fingers played over the hard, black object in his hand; running over the edges thoughtfully as he lay in his bunk. He grinned thinly as he looked at the vacant cabin. He felt the ship race through the waters beneath him; its steady motion always reassuring did not this once reassure. It had seemed something was not altogether the same among the crew following his late night visitation. His first mate had burst in rather awkwardly in the night, asking Jack for answers. That was the moment he felt the difference, a difference but in what he did not really know. But it was there and he found himself truly troubled for the first time in a very long while.
Captain Jack Sparrow leaned onto his elbow, never moving from his bunk. His eyes observed the swaying of the lamp which swayed just as it had done before. The eyes took in all of the controlled chaos of his cabin. What remained of his maps, the ones he himself had made after hours of believing and dreaming the location of the hoard lying half in the mists of a dream lying deep in its own nightmare. Dreaming that the one who would find the treasure of the Ile dela Muerta would be himself. The pirate captain always must provide his men with gold, an unending supply if it were possible. He would deliver what they had never hoped for, a prize too terrible for the getting. A curse on it, they had told him. All of the writings, the murmured warnings of bloody omens wreaking vengeance from the distant past. Here in this land, the pain was fresh and real, but Jack Sparrow had never been a superstitious man.
And perhaps he should be. Knowing what lay in his heart, at that moment, he wanted to believe it for he had his own dread to face. He would have to face it all too soon. From this familiar cabin of his, with the maps lying open under the remnant of last night's rum and buccan it seemed that nothing could, not even a nightmare could, reach him in his home in the embrace of the Pearl. What was this nightmare? Did he dream or were the feelings in his body true and he only fighting back blindly, pushing the idea- the idea away; further and deeper. If he could he would thrust it into the ink-blue waters of the night. The idea was real, was becoming more real as he thought of how to extinguish it, only he knew it would be death again.
Jack snapped the compass closed, and tucked it away as he sat up on his bunk. He gingerly adjusted his coat, and thought of something he hadn't thought of since he was quite a different man; since he was a boy. He knew they would be coming for him soon, and he couldn't stop them. His men would come for him to take his identity away. He would be humiliated, a captain without a ship, is no captain at all. For a moment he sat and pondered in his divided mind which was the best way, when all the ways were dark. He scowled inwardly, not liking the choices ahead. He thought of it again, or thought of him.
The dark glass of his cabin reflected his face at him, and he shied away from it. He didn't want to recognize the fearful, bitter look in that face like that of a man condemned after having been promised eternal freedom. It was the face that was so different from what he was, he would never become the man in the glass; not if it could be helped.
Could it be helped? What had he done when it had been his time? What had Charles done that bitter day, both cold and cruel, when his children; his people, had lain him on the block? Jack had never heard of what happened, only what a sailor brat in the Caribbean deserved to know; that the king was dead and that there were to be no more kings now. How had it been for him, did he beg them? Did he spit in their faces, the rogues that would kill a king? Jack had thought, all those years ago, of what he would have done if he had been there. And now he thought of what he would do now, in this world without kings.
"What would you do now, old friend?" the hat lay on the table, next to the rum. The light in his eyes turned soft as he looked through the dark of his cabin at the dark brown hat. He trembled, and placed a heavy hand to the table. Breathing deliberately for a moment, he leaned into his hand before straightening again. He busied his hands with fastening the belt about his waist.
"Ay? No help now that young Jackie's goin' awa'?" He tensed as he finished slowly sliding his sword into the scabbard beside him. He listened to the shriek of the blade guiltily. "Best they didn't hear that," he mused before placing his hand on the hat. "Of course, that doesn't matter now," he lifted the hat to his head, and arranged himself in his chair. With a sigh he swung one leg onto the table, wrapped his wrist around the glass. And he waited.
He couldn't know about Charles, about Henry but he knew how Jack would meet his day. He couldn't only hope that it would be day, that they would not take him in the night. The night had robbed him of too much already, and he had seen blackness of men in the night. Choices were few. The window received many glances from those eyes to bring the dawn to the sky but still it would not come for him.
Jack Sparrow's Black Pear(l): Thank you- I did read your stories! They are very funny. Actually I did not get to review the one about his sock yet, but I will! I once wrote a poem about socks... Anyway, I don't know what I am doing. Maybe I just wrote a lot of funny stuff and now I have different ideas. I don't know! I hope you like this chapter too.
***
Chapter Five
His fingers played over the hard, black object in his hand; running over the edges thoughtfully as he lay in his bunk. He grinned thinly as he looked at the vacant cabin. He felt the ship race through the waters beneath him; its steady motion always reassuring did not this once reassure. It had seemed something was not altogether the same among the crew following his late night visitation. His first mate had burst in rather awkwardly in the night, asking Jack for answers. That was the moment he felt the difference, a difference but in what he did not really know. But it was there and he found himself truly troubled for the first time in a very long while.
Captain Jack Sparrow leaned onto his elbow, never moving from his bunk. His eyes observed the swaying of the lamp which swayed just as it had done before. The eyes took in all of the controlled chaos of his cabin. What remained of his maps, the ones he himself had made after hours of believing and dreaming the location of the hoard lying half in the mists of a dream lying deep in its own nightmare. Dreaming that the one who would find the treasure of the Ile dela Muerta would be himself. The pirate captain always must provide his men with gold, an unending supply if it were possible. He would deliver what they had never hoped for, a prize too terrible for the getting. A curse on it, they had told him. All of the writings, the murmured warnings of bloody omens wreaking vengeance from the distant past. Here in this land, the pain was fresh and real, but Jack Sparrow had never been a superstitious man.
And perhaps he should be. Knowing what lay in his heart, at that moment, he wanted to believe it for he had his own dread to face. He would have to face it all too soon. From this familiar cabin of his, with the maps lying open under the remnant of last night's rum and buccan it seemed that nothing could, not even a nightmare could, reach him in his home in the embrace of the Pearl. What was this nightmare? Did he dream or were the feelings in his body true and he only fighting back blindly, pushing the idea- the idea away; further and deeper. If he could he would thrust it into the ink-blue waters of the night. The idea was real, was becoming more real as he thought of how to extinguish it, only he knew it would be death again.
Jack snapped the compass closed, and tucked it away as he sat up on his bunk. He gingerly adjusted his coat, and thought of something he hadn't thought of since he was quite a different man; since he was a boy. He knew they would be coming for him soon, and he couldn't stop them. His men would come for him to take his identity away. He would be humiliated, a captain without a ship, is no captain at all. For a moment he sat and pondered in his divided mind which was the best way, when all the ways were dark. He scowled inwardly, not liking the choices ahead. He thought of it again, or thought of him.
The dark glass of his cabin reflected his face at him, and he shied away from it. He didn't want to recognize the fearful, bitter look in that face like that of a man condemned after having been promised eternal freedom. It was the face that was so different from what he was, he would never become the man in the glass; not if it could be helped.
Could it be helped? What had he done when it had been his time? What had Charles done that bitter day, both cold and cruel, when his children; his people, had lain him on the block? Jack had never heard of what happened, only what a sailor brat in the Caribbean deserved to know; that the king was dead and that there were to be no more kings now. How had it been for him, did he beg them? Did he spit in their faces, the rogues that would kill a king? Jack had thought, all those years ago, of what he would have done if he had been there. And now he thought of what he would do now, in this world without kings.
"What would you do now, old friend?" the hat lay on the table, next to the rum. The light in his eyes turned soft as he looked through the dark of his cabin at the dark brown hat. He trembled, and placed a heavy hand to the table. Breathing deliberately for a moment, he leaned into his hand before straightening again. He busied his hands with fastening the belt about his waist.
"Ay? No help now that young Jackie's goin' awa'?" He tensed as he finished slowly sliding his sword into the scabbard beside him. He listened to the shriek of the blade guiltily. "Best they didn't hear that," he mused before placing his hand on the hat. "Of course, that doesn't matter now," he lifted the hat to his head, and arranged himself in his chair. With a sigh he swung one leg onto the table, wrapped his wrist around the glass. And he waited.
He couldn't know about Charles, about Henry but he knew how Jack would meet his day. He couldn't only hope that it would be day, that they would not take him in the night. The night had robbed him of too much already, and he had seen blackness of men in the night. Choices were few. The window received many glances from those eyes to bring the dawn to the sky but still it would not come for him.