Promise Me Part 2
I Promised, Luv
~*Several Years Later*~
The mid-afternoon sunlight shone down on a small cabin set higher up on the hillside than most other lodgings. The small cabin was made chiefly of old wooden planks, held together with tar and nails, and a stone foundation. Two stone slabs were laid out before the door, the smaller resting on top of the larger, creating a short stair. Moss had been growing on the foundation stones and stairs for quite some time, turning the once-gray stones a gentle hue of green.
The rickety wooden door slowly opened, the bottom of the doorframe scraping against the stones laid before it. Behind the door followed a woman. She was aged quite a bit more than others of the time, probably around 60 years. Her graying hair—once black—fell down around her shoulders and reached the small of her back at it's longest point. It was somewhat thick and had small waves in it, shaping itself around her face. Her creamy coffee-brown skin, smooth in her youth was now forming wrinkles both from constant exposure to the sun and from age. She had long since traded in her sailor's clothing for a simple, earth-toned dress.
Her posture was somewhat slumped and her walk shaky as she slowly descended the few short stairs to the packed dirt ground in front of the hut. She slowly made her way across the ground, turning around the side of the house, and continuing towards the large field of indigenous wildflowers and undergrowth of leafy plants that grew there. She picked out a path that was non-existent to any other, as it was hidden from common view by the thick, wild growths. Only one who had traveled it constantly for many years would know it to be there; and travel it the woman had. She followed the invisible path out to the far reaches . . . to where the field met the exotic jungle.
Upon reaching a specific bush, she stopped. On the bush sat hundreds of large, deep purple blossoms. The elderly woman kneeled down beside the growth and examined each flower closely. After a few minutes of decisive looking, she found her prize—the largest blossom with the richest royal purple color ever seen. She nodded as if in agreement with herself and reached out to the flower with slightly trembling hands.
'Every once in awhile, our lost come back to us, ye know . . .'
A familiar voice seemed to carry that statement on the non-existent wind to the woman's ears only. Her hands froze in place as the voice and a specific memory clicked together, then smiled tightly to herself. She cupped the flower in one hand, carefully removing a single petal. She slowly stood, cradling the petal in her hands as if it were the most precious item in the world and proceeded to follow the path back to the hut . . .
. . . upon reaching the edge of the clearing nearest her home, she glanced up at the sun, as if following a schedule. She gasped a bit to herself and, with a slightly hastened pace, headed towards the stairs of the cabin. She made her way up the stairs and through the door as quickly as her old body could go, still cupping the petal in her hands protectively.
She entered the two-roomed lodging and scurried across the kitchen floor, leaving the front door wide open in her wake. She continued on into the next room—the bedroom. She crossed the room and walked at a more respectful pace up to the small shrine sitting in the corner.
Inside the shrine sat several small trinkets . . . strings of beads; a compass, the lid shut tightly; a few balls of shot; a scrap of well-worn paper with a messy note written on one side; and lastly, a box, the lid ornately jeweled. The gems formed the image of a small bird swooping before a setting sun over the lapping waves of the sea in a vibrant display of color.
The woman gingerly opened the jeweled box, small tears forming at the corners of her eyes. As the lid rose, it revealed that the fair-sized box was filled almost to the brim with dry or still-drying flower petals. She gently placed the freshly-picked petal atop the others, her hands lingering above the fragile pieces.
'Save a flower petal in remembrance o' me?'
The same, familiar voice echoed through her mind, bringing the phrase beck from the long-dead past. Her gaze snuck its way over to the bouquet of flowers hanging on the wall above one of the beds. Even though the flowers had long since been drained of their color and life, they were easily known to be the same type from which the woman had extracted the effervescent petal.
The tears grew larger, coating her eyes in gleaming remembrance. She closed her eyes tightly, causing the extra water to silently glide down her cheeks as she lowered her head.
"Why th' sad face, luv?" An overly familiar voice that hadn't spoken, save for memories and dreams in years, inquired.
The woman's head shot up, her hair flinging about her head and the tears leaving glistening trails down her face. She shook her head, thinking the voice was all in her head—it had to be. It had been for the last twenty-odd years, why would anything change now?
"Sorry t' disappoint, but 'm'not leavin' . . . not yet, 'nyways." The familiar voice drawled casually, as if reading her thoughts.
The woman took a fortifying breath, then slowly turned her head to the right, where the source of the voice supposedly resided. "Jack?" She asked before she saw who—if anyone—was actually in the room with her. When she was facing the voice's owner, her face broke into a loving smile, tears falling anew. "Jack!" She cried happily, her voice breaking as she jumped to engulf the man in a hug.
As she attempted to wrap her arms around his neck, she unexpectedly passed right through his seemingly solid body. She stopped in confusion, looking at her hands with him standing back-to-back with her.
"Wha-what happened?" She questioned, sadness entering her voice. "Jack?" She asked again, the sadness and confusion mixing.
"Didn't ye know? 've been gone fer nigh twenty years, luv." Jack replied, amusement playing through his voice and across his features, though the woman couldn't see.
"S'not funny, Jack Sparrow." She said somewhat coldly, reading the tone of his voice. "Ye come 'ere t' taunt me. Leave a poor woman 'lone." She snapped, her voice growing colder with each word and finally breaking in silent sobs at the end of the statement.
"CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow." Jack corrected automatically with a sigh.
"Can't exactly captain a ship when ye're dead." She said bluntly, her voice a half-growl as anger joined the growing mix of emotions.
Jack's shameless grin disappeared instantly and he frowned, realizing how badly he had unintentionally hurt her. He slowly turned to face her back, his expression solemn. "Thought ye'd like a visit from me . . ."
"Why? So ye coul' drag ba' painful memories?!" She snapped, her tone as hard as ice. "Then the answer's nay."
"No luv . . . why would I want t' be doin' that?" Jack asked, stepping up closer behind her without her knowledge. "Ana, look at me," he commanded gently.
As hard as she struggled against the urge to obey him, she found herself facing him not a moment later and gazing into his dark eyes longingly.
"I didn't come 'ere t' hurt ye . . ." He started smoothly, his voice almost a whisper. "I came t' bring ye with me."
Ana's eyes widened in silent question, not sure she'd heard right.
"Aye. Ye can join me now . . . but only if ye want t'." Jack repeated, giving her one of his characteristic grins.
It was then that all the emotions she had been holding back flooded into her. How she had missed him over the last twenty-four years . . . his roughish handsomeness; his drunken behavior; his gold-toothed grins that made her want to melt; his companionship; and, most importantly: his spirit. It was the memory of him and his indomitable spirit that had kept her going in this world . . . that, and the promises he had asked her to keep.
"What say you t' that?" Jack asked, still grinning—he knew her answer and so he extended his hand to her.
Ana's eyes were glistening with more tears, this time of immeasurable happiness. But there was another emotion in her eyes . . . was it . . . doubt?
"Ana, somethin' wrong?" Jack asked, reading the emotion for what it really was.
"What about her?" Ana asked, nodding towards the other bed in the room.
"She'll be fine—if anything, better off. Think about it, she'll get t' go live out 'er life with no strings attached. She's strong; she'll be fine." Jack replied openly, moving his fingers to draw her attention back to his proffered hand. "'Sides, she's our daughter. Wha' could go wrong?" He asked with another grin.
Ana noticed the movement and glanced down, a shadow of uncertainty passing over her face.
"Please Ana. Take my hand."
Ana glanced up and her gaze locked with his. It was that same, pleading tone with which he had gotten her to acquiesce to his wishes all those years ago. She tried to pull away, but his warm, pleading face was too strong a draw. She deftly nodded and placed her right hand into his outstretched one and took her last breath from the human world.
The transformation from human to spirit was a brief instant of time, where the pains and frailties of old age disappeared in a splash of energy; clean, revitalizing energy.
Jack gently tugged on her hand and she stepped forward, leaving the now-empty shell of her old body to slump to the floor.
"Ah yes . . . as lovely as ever." Jack muttered, admiring her.
His words confused her and she glanced down at herself, only to find that she was back to the age she had been when Jack had given her the bouquet. She was also back in her pirate garb; cutlass, pistol, and all.
For the first time she realized that Jack too had his weapons, as well as all the beads that she had thought were left in the shrine. She also noticed that he hadn't aged from that fateful morning, either.
Ana looked back up and smiled widely, then leapt forward and wrapped her arms around his neck as she had wanted to do before. "Thanks for comin' back fer me, Jack." She whispered into his hair.
Jack wrapped his arms carefully around her waist and returned the embrace. "I promised, luv. I promised I'd never leave ye."
[a/n: Please review.]
I Promised, Luv
~*Several Years Later*~
The mid-afternoon sunlight shone down on a small cabin set higher up on the hillside than most other lodgings. The small cabin was made chiefly of old wooden planks, held together with tar and nails, and a stone foundation. Two stone slabs were laid out before the door, the smaller resting on top of the larger, creating a short stair. Moss had been growing on the foundation stones and stairs for quite some time, turning the once-gray stones a gentle hue of green.
The rickety wooden door slowly opened, the bottom of the doorframe scraping against the stones laid before it. Behind the door followed a woman. She was aged quite a bit more than others of the time, probably around 60 years. Her graying hair—once black—fell down around her shoulders and reached the small of her back at it's longest point. It was somewhat thick and had small waves in it, shaping itself around her face. Her creamy coffee-brown skin, smooth in her youth was now forming wrinkles both from constant exposure to the sun and from age. She had long since traded in her sailor's clothing for a simple, earth-toned dress.
Her posture was somewhat slumped and her walk shaky as she slowly descended the few short stairs to the packed dirt ground in front of the hut. She slowly made her way across the ground, turning around the side of the house, and continuing towards the large field of indigenous wildflowers and undergrowth of leafy plants that grew there. She picked out a path that was non-existent to any other, as it was hidden from common view by the thick, wild growths. Only one who had traveled it constantly for many years would know it to be there; and travel it the woman had. She followed the invisible path out to the far reaches . . . to where the field met the exotic jungle.
Upon reaching a specific bush, she stopped. On the bush sat hundreds of large, deep purple blossoms. The elderly woman kneeled down beside the growth and examined each flower closely. After a few minutes of decisive looking, she found her prize—the largest blossom with the richest royal purple color ever seen. She nodded as if in agreement with herself and reached out to the flower with slightly trembling hands.
'Every once in awhile, our lost come back to us, ye know . . .'
A familiar voice seemed to carry that statement on the non-existent wind to the woman's ears only. Her hands froze in place as the voice and a specific memory clicked together, then smiled tightly to herself. She cupped the flower in one hand, carefully removing a single petal. She slowly stood, cradling the petal in her hands as if it were the most precious item in the world and proceeded to follow the path back to the hut . . .
. . . upon reaching the edge of the clearing nearest her home, she glanced up at the sun, as if following a schedule. She gasped a bit to herself and, with a slightly hastened pace, headed towards the stairs of the cabin. She made her way up the stairs and through the door as quickly as her old body could go, still cupping the petal in her hands protectively.
She entered the two-roomed lodging and scurried across the kitchen floor, leaving the front door wide open in her wake. She continued on into the next room—the bedroom. She crossed the room and walked at a more respectful pace up to the small shrine sitting in the corner.
Inside the shrine sat several small trinkets . . . strings of beads; a compass, the lid shut tightly; a few balls of shot; a scrap of well-worn paper with a messy note written on one side; and lastly, a box, the lid ornately jeweled. The gems formed the image of a small bird swooping before a setting sun over the lapping waves of the sea in a vibrant display of color.
The woman gingerly opened the jeweled box, small tears forming at the corners of her eyes. As the lid rose, it revealed that the fair-sized box was filled almost to the brim with dry or still-drying flower petals. She gently placed the freshly-picked petal atop the others, her hands lingering above the fragile pieces.
'Save a flower petal in remembrance o' me?'
The same, familiar voice echoed through her mind, bringing the phrase beck from the long-dead past. Her gaze snuck its way over to the bouquet of flowers hanging on the wall above one of the beds. Even though the flowers had long since been drained of their color and life, they were easily known to be the same type from which the woman had extracted the effervescent petal.
The tears grew larger, coating her eyes in gleaming remembrance. She closed her eyes tightly, causing the extra water to silently glide down her cheeks as she lowered her head.
"Why th' sad face, luv?" An overly familiar voice that hadn't spoken, save for memories and dreams in years, inquired.
The woman's head shot up, her hair flinging about her head and the tears leaving glistening trails down her face. She shook her head, thinking the voice was all in her head—it had to be. It had been for the last twenty-odd years, why would anything change now?
"Sorry t' disappoint, but 'm'not leavin' . . . not yet, 'nyways." The familiar voice drawled casually, as if reading her thoughts.
The woman took a fortifying breath, then slowly turned her head to the right, where the source of the voice supposedly resided. "Jack?" She asked before she saw who—if anyone—was actually in the room with her. When she was facing the voice's owner, her face broke into a loving smile, tears falling anew. "Jack!" She cried happily, her voice breaking as she jumped to engulf the man in a hug.
As she attempted to wrap her arms around his neck, she unexpectedly passed right through his seemingly solid body. She stopped in confusion, looking at her hands with him standing back-to-back with her.
"Wha-what happened?" She questioned, sadness entering her voice. "Jack?" She asked again, the sadness and confusion mixing.
"Didn't ye know? 've been gone fer nigh twenty years, luv." Jack replied, amusement playing through his voice and across his features, though the woman couldn't see.
"S'not funny, Jack Sparrow." She said somewhat coldly, reading the tone of his voice. "Ye come 'ere t' taunt me. Leave a poor woman 'lone." She snapped, her voice growing colder with each word and finally breaking in silent sobs at the end of the statement.
"CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow." Jack corrected automatically with a sigh.
"Can't exactly captain a ship when ye're dead." She said bluntly, her voice a half-growl as anger joined the growing mix of emotions.
Jack's shameless grin disappeared instantly and he frowned, realizing how badly he had unintentionally hurt her. He slowly turned to face her back, his expression solemn. "Thought ye'd like a visit from me . . ."
"Why? So ye coul' drag ba' painful memories?!" She snapped, her tone as hard as ice. "Then the answer's nay."
"No luv . . . why would I want t' be doin' that?" Jack asked, stepping up closer behind her without her knowledge. "Ana, look at me," he commanded gently.
As hard as she struggled against the urge to obey him, she found herself facing him not a moment later and gazing into his dark eyes longingly.
"I didn't come 'ere t' hurt ye . . ." He started smoothly, his voice almost a whisper. "I came t' bring ye with me."
Ana's eyes widened in silent question, not sure she'd heard right.
"Aye. Ye can join me now . . . but only if ye want t'." Jack repeated, giving her one of his characteristic grins.
It was then that all the emotions she had been holding back flooded into her. How she had missed him over the last twenty-four years . . . his roughish handsomeness; his drunken behavior; his gold-toothed grins that made her want to melt; his companionship; and, most importantly: his spirit. It was the memory of him and his indomitable spirit that had kept her going in this world . . . that, and the promises he had asked her to keep.
"What say you t' that?" Jack asked, still grinning—he knew her answer and so he extended his hand to her.
Ana's eyes were glistening with more tears, this time of immeasurable happiness. But there was another emotion in her eyes . . . was it . . . doubt?
"Ana, somethin' wrong?" Jack asked, reading the emotion for what it really was.
"What about her?" Ana asked, nodding towards the other bed in the room.
"She'll be fine—if anything, better off. Think about it, she'll get t' go live out 'er life with no strings attached. She's strong; she'll be fine." Jack replied openly, moving his fingers to draw her attention back to his proffered hand. "'Sides, she's our daughter. Wha' could go wrong?" He asked with another grin.
Ana noticed the movement and glanced down, a shadow of uncertainty passing over her face.
"Please Ana. Take my hand."
Ana glanced up and her gaze locked with his. It was that same, pleading tone with which he had gotten her to acquiesce to his wishes all those years ago. She tried to pull away, but his warm, pleading face was too strong a draw. She deftly nodded and placed her right hand into his outstretched one and took her last breath from the human world.
The transformation from human to spirit was a brief instant of time, where the pains and frailties of old age disappeared in a splash of energy; clean, revitalizing energy.
Jack gently tugged on her hand and she stepped forward, leaving the now-empty shell of her old body to slump to the floor.
"Ah yes . . . as lovely as ever." Jack muttered, admiring her.
His words confused her and she glanced down at herself, only to find that she was back to the age she had been when Jack had given her the bouquet. She was also back in her pirate garb; cutlass, pistol, and all.
For the first time she realized that Jack too had his weapons, as well as all the beads that she had thought were left in the shrine. She also noticed that he hadn't aged from that fateful morning, either.
Ana looked back up and smiled widely, then leapt forward and wrapped her arms around his neck as she had wanted to do before. "Thanks for comin' back fer me, Jack." She whispered into his hair.
Jack wrapped his arms carefully around her waist and returned the embrace. "I promised, luv. I promised I'd never leave ye."
[a/n: Please review.]