Rage against the dying of the light...
The sea has always protected him, sheltered him from others but right now it offers no hope. He knows that he may very well die here, away from all civilization, away from his friends… his traitors… away from any people at all. It's so funny because he always expected to die in the midst of a bloody battle protecting everything that he loved and held so dear. He expected that the last thing he would hear would be the motion of the waves as he sank down into the ocean's depth. He had been scared of drowning as a child but his father had taught him to swim and he learned to love the sea, learned to know and understand it. And then there was nothing to fear. He can still die by drowning now but it would become an act of desperation and he can't at all costs let his enemy know that they won. He can't die now the way they wanted him to and he can't die at all. Even if it is inevitable. He wonders if his will is strong enough to overcome death, to let him become a ghost to haunt his enemies until the end of time.
He's been here for two days and already his own thoughts are starting to drive him insane. He knows that he's never been perfectly sane and that was always all right because he always knows how to control it, to use it to his own advantage. Make it a mark of his rather then a handicap. Something that people will know and remember him by. He knows how to think though the jumble of words in his head. Only now there are no distractions, no friendly, helpful people to bring him back if he gets lost. The words in his head are loud and angry, saying things that he cannot possibly mean nor would he ever want to. Whispering countless possibilities into his mind. What to do with those that betrayed him; how to track them down, how to get back at them for the injustice that they had done to him. His mind keeps on replaying the scenes; the pain, the anger, the hopelessness… the mutiny.
He has never liked marooning people. He isn't above doing worse though; he isn't above killing a traitor. He would beat them half to death, lock them in the brig for months at a time but he wouldn't leave them alone on a deserted island with no help in sight. Would never leave them alone on a small boat with no provisions and the definite knowledge that no ship would pass to save them in time. Because even though it had never happened to him before, he knows what it feels like. Don't do to others what you wouldn't want them to do onto you. He takes that pretty seriously. What goes around, comes around again. He made a mistake of mentioning it to his first mate once when he had been in a philosophical mood at the helm one night. Right after he had punished a man with flogging and seclusion whereas the rest of the crew had thought to make him walk the plank; right to the hungry sharks underneath the ship and a small uninhabited island in the distance. Not the first mistake he had made but definitely one of the biggest. Perhaps that should have been his first clue though. The entire crew united in opinion against the Captain of the vessel.
Only it hadn't mattered to him then. He despised loneliness and refused to let others suffer the fate he feared. Maybe because he was too much of a coward to face it himself. He wishes he had paid attention to the clues now. Only regardless of what he tells himself, there was nothing that he could have done.
He is hungry now. They had locked him in his own brig without even a guard and nobody brought his any food or water for close to three days. So he isn't hungry anymore, he is practically starving. They had taken him out, blinking into the sunlight, the whole crew with those money-hungry expressions on their feral faces laughing at him, thanking him for the ship and the gold they were about to get. He could hardly understand their words, their language seemed unfamiliar, barbaric to him but he understood enough when he saw why it was that they had finally let him out. The small uninhabited island in the distance. He didn't struggle. That would have meant that his treacherous first mate had won. So instead, he looked his former first mate straight in the eye. And the first mate, the self proclaimed Captain of something that would never truly be his, had laughed.
He fingers the gun held loosely in his hands. He won't use it on himself. If need be, he will die of hunger, thirst and too much sun exposure. He had promised himself the second that the traitor had placed it in his hands that he will kill him with it. The one shot is only meant for one person.
Weakly, he crawls to the water's edge and sits there swaying on his knees, staring out into the horizon as he has done countless of time before. It's no different now, it's still beautiful, it still talks of ships and freedom. Overcome by weakness, he falls on his face on the sand, one hand outstretched so that the waves wash over it each time another one comes, caressing him in love and promising hope and comfort. Turning his head only so slightly that he may still breathe, he sobs weakly. He isn't one to cry often but the hopelessness overwhelms him in his fragile state. So sick and so weak, he can't care enough to move.
Someday soon, he will get up and crawl back under the helpful shade of the trees and he will await the rescue that will surely come. Even though he is content to lie here now, he also knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that help will come soon and he can't possibly face that help lying face down in the sand. So he will get up and clean up as much as he can and await that help, because he has an unfulfilled promise to fulfill and his ship to reclaim. He still has too much to do in his life for this to be all that there is, for this to be the end. And because of the simplest reason of all. The advantage that he ahs over everyone else. Because he is Captain Jack Sparrow.
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