Title: The Tapestries of Lore
Author: Berne
Disclaimer: All belongs to Disney.
Feedback: Very much appreciated.
AN: Dedicated to Watersword.
The Tapestries of Lore
No one knew precisely when he died. There was a time, though, when the fanciful tales dissipated into echoing questions, leaving gaping holes in the tapestries of lore. And people -- from the lowliest of innkeepers to the highest of kings, encompassing every fine and not-so-fine maid -- would wonder, because no one knew how to live the life of a legend quite like Captain Jack Sparrow.
It was a storm, a huge one, kicking up something terrible along the East Indian coast. Went down with his ship, he did, because they were joined, supernatural, like. If she went down, he went down; if he went down, she went down. And that's how Jack Sparrow died.
Jack Sparrow? He didn't die. Not possible. Jack Sparrow was the son of a gypsy, you know, magic in the blood. He didn't die, he --
Was shot. Six times by a Spanish king.
Nay, the madness finally caught up with him. Sun and rum and --
Scurvy. Fever. Syphilis. Plague. Plague? Bubonic plague.
Traitor, mutiny, skeletons. No, that was twenty years ago or more. Anothercurse, then, a better one. A Killing Curse. From different Gods? Aye.
He died saving a maiden. Or was he taken by a maiden? One of them of the sea. Yes, he was taken by one of them.
Hanged. No, not hanged -- tortured. Brave man, though, never gave up his crew. Never? Never ever.
He could feel the Pearl thrumming beneath him, cutting silently through the waves. The sea was glass-smooth, reflecting the skies above. The indigo silks of Singapore and silver threads from Morocco; peacock feathers, cyan and dragon's blood. A fine mist clung to the Pearl's sails like the last vestiges of a dream, of a memory, of a life before. The more he tried to grasp it the more it slipped away, and so he contented himself with settling a feather-light grip on the Pearl's wheel.
Here, the sea and sky stretched out, and there was a ship sailing beside him, familiar faces that were pale smudges against the dark wood, but each one none the less recognisable for it. The vessel was flying colours that he knew as well as himself and he could hear sweet snatches of a half-remembered song. He followed the sound, followed them into choppier waters, where the wind sang in his ears and the mist was washed away. Salt on his tongue and a laugh bubbling from his lips, he chased that horizon across the seas and into forever.