Note: Back after a while. cough This is, as unbelievably as that sounds, a new chapter. Yay. Yeah I sort of can't believe it myself. It is set back in the brig of the Navy ship.

Chapter 6

Slave Market

The man pulls me up by my arms.

"What is going on?" I have been well asleep.

"Shut up and don't speak again."

He is the slave trader. They are not keeping us as crew on the Navy vessel. We're too dangerous. Can't risk leaving us around weapons. Clever men they are. Or maybe they don't want to wait for our wounds to heal, our fever to subside. So they are selling us as slaves, or that's what William Turner sneaked to the brig. The same goes for the tribal people. Nobody can understand them, and they are considered retarded, savage cannibals, so it makes no sense to try and make them crew.

The man turns me around and studies me.

"You're the one that was flogged."

"Gosh, I wonder how you figured that out."

He slaps me hard. For a moment, I see stars dancing merrily in front of my eye. He didn't hit me with his fist, but with his palm. I'm not bleeding, but my ears are ringing, and spit drips from my lip. He pulls me up from my knees by grabbing my collar.

"I told you to be silent. Nod, or shake your head when I ask you. I'm not the least interested in hearing your voice." He's incredibly huge. Am I frightened? I look into his eyes.

"Show me the wounds."

I keep staring.

"Get out of that shirt!"

I do as he tells me. He examines the cuts. His hands on my skin feel awful, and I am no more than a piece of meat to him. Cattle on the market. I shudder. The feeling is not pleasant. At all. After a while he paints a price onto a slate with a chalk, and hangs it around my neck on strings. He attaches a chain to my hands, and another one to my collar.

And as easy as this, we finally became stock to be sold on the market.

- - -

India. The heat of the sun glistens in the air. The tribal men from the brig, Jack and me. We're going to be slaves. Kept chained like animals, without shade, waiting to be auctioned off. Not even wearing shirts. I can feel my flesh roasting.

Jack turns and twists.

"I can't see it, dammit." Every time he moves, he almost strangles me. Our necks are connected with a chain.

"Will you please stop that?", I groan.

"Will you tell me what it says?"

He is very upset. I grin. He has his price label on his back. It flipped over to there when he talked the slave trader into punching him. Since then he can't bring it back to his front, and he's dying to find out how much it is saying – because he saw mine and he really wants to know whom of us is going for more. I could tell him who it is, but then … why spoil all the fun? I can easily bear that pain in my neck, just for the torment in his face. I smirk. When it comes down to … we're just pirates.

I mean, if he would ask me to flip the sign back to his front, I certainly would do it. But I know he will never ask.

And so the hours pass.

A while later, Jack has passed out on the ground, from the heat and the dehydration, and because there is the fever growing stronger in him. The chain around our necks pulls me down with him, and I decide just to wait. I can't do much anyway. And so I kneel there with my head hanging, eye closed, listening to the heat of the sun on my shoulders, the subtle sting of the stitches in my back, the pulsating of blood under cloth stuffed in the empty eye socket, my shallow breathing, the sweat running down from my scalp, over my cheek, down my jaw line, onto my collarbone, and I just hold Jack's hand.

After a while the overseer comes to us, to presumably take us to the auction. But there is no way he can wake up Jack. So he removes the neck chain, to get me out of the way, because he's not giving up on Jack easily, turning his attention back to my brother. I'm not leaving Jack here, that's what I think when I see one of the soldiers walking past with what clearly is my sword. Now if that's not fate I don't know.

I feel the ideas clicking into place in my head, and I move very quickly. I'm close to the ground, behind the overseer, in one moment, and I'm crouching below the soldier, in the next, wrapping my fingers around the hilt of the katana. Just after I unsheathe the blade, screaming rises. There is a little girl close by, and I grab her without a second thought. Pull her close, wrapping my left arm around her shoulders. And bring the edge of the blade to her throat in a swift motion.

The sweet scent of jasmine hits me, and I see the sharp contrast of my skin covered in filth and blood on the bright and shiny starch of her dress. I'm not looking at her face, but her red hair is very close to my cheek suddenly. My heartbeat's fast. She's not struggling, dammit, why is that little thing not struggling. I feel it's not because she is afraid. Because she is not afraid. And for a second, I am afraid.

"Release her." I hear the overseer say. I shake my head, slowly moving backwards.

"Come one step closer and I'll slit her throat."

The Ensign that gave me water in the brig moves forward, and draws his gun on me. "Release the girl."

"I'm sorry, but you'll have to shoot me then." I feel the wall in my back. Okay. Good plan, Hal Sparrow, but what now? What exactly were you trying to do?

"Don't do anything you'll regret afterwards," the young Ensign tells me.

I laugh. He's a sweet guy. Does he really think that I would regret killing this girl? Lad, I have done worse things. I move the blade, and feel it cutting her skin.

And after a while, when we just stay that way and nobody moves, it comes to me that in reality, nobody is coming to her aid. If I had wanted to, I could have killed her.

I feel laughter slowly crawling up my throat. Hoarsely and silently, and I let the blade slip, slip away from her throat, dangle down to the sand from a tired arm. Instead, I hug the little girl from behind, brushing a hand over her cheek quickly. Lean forward to whisper in her ear.

"I'm sorry, Milady. Didn't mean no inconvenience. Seems to me that you're not of very much more worth than I am. At least to them. To me, you're the only gem in a chest of stones."

With that I lay the sword down, carefully, into the sand, and stand up, to lean against the wall with my hands unarmed and open. The slave trader moves forward and hits me. And a second time when I don't go down instantly. I meet his glance and say:

"Wait. If you want to see me on my knees, all you have to do is ask."

I drop to the ground before him, but I'm not letting go of his gaze. He holds his breath. And for a moment, I'm not sure who of us is the one on his knees.

Some silent seconds pass before he gulps. Then, he informs me:

"It was a wise move not to kill the little Miss. She just bought you and your friend."

- - -

Ensign Norrington watched the strange parade from behind. He and a group of Marines guarded the little party from the slave market to the tea plantation. It clearly was not a wise move of the British noble family to leave a little girl and a single Indian servant in so vicious a place as a slave market. He had felt obliged to take care of them, and had been relieved when he was told that these were his orders.

Norrington shifted in the saddle of his sorrel and turned the horse, to follow the party. He really did wonder where Mistress Neats' parents were. The girl definitely had no sense for danger. A couple of minutes ago, she had taken one of the pirates in the carriage, because he was – pretending or not – being unable to walk. Of course against the Ensign's protests. Norrington was indeed convinced that the vile man was only pretending, since the one he called his brother had been in a worse state for weeks now, and he was walking. The Ensign's glance shifted to said brother, that was stumbling along in line with the Polynesian slaves. Now he was a weird one. The older brother, he was a pirate, that was definite. A dishonest man, a thief, a murderer. And there was nothing more about him. Nothing. But what with this one? He had the manners of a noble man, and he was educated. He was not acting like a pirate. Maybe that was the catch with him, what made him especially dangerous. And yet there were the traces of his lifestyle allover him. Scars and bruises and tattoos. When Norrington had seen him first, he had been convinced that he wouldn't last two days. But there he was, still covered in festering scars, but he was walking upright. Well, nearly. It was apparent that he had trouble keeping pace with the others. But there he was. The other day, he'd tried to escape, taking young Mistress Neats hostage. Not a wise move, and one that didn't work out, but nonetheless it was stunning that he had been physically capable of performing it.

The Ensign dabbed sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. Some days ago, he had watched the pirates sleep from a distance. And he had told the Marine next to him how astounded he was that the young one had the will to continue living. A while later he had passed by the sleeping figure, and suddenly, a chained hand had grabbed hold of his coat. With still closed eyes, the man had said that it was not so much a matter of being willed to live, but rather plainly refusing to die. Now that the fun really began. Norrington had ripped his coat loose and left him behind quickly.

What was curious about these two pirates was the thing going on in between them. They did look enough alike to really be brothers. But even if they were not, there was a bond so strong with them that it frightened the Ensign. He would have called it love, or rather brotherly love, but notions like these were entirely impossible with folk as those two were. He would assume that these values had died among criminals. All the more the pirates did irritate him. He couldn't categorize them as he was used to.

The mare shifted its head, trying to scatter the flies surrounding it, but failed. So Norrington leaned forward and killed an especially big insect that sat behind the animal's ears. That was when he heard loud voices. He glanced around and saw that the source of the turmoil was among the Polynesian men. The child they had with them, the boy, he lay on the ground motionless. Norrington shook his head. Not much to his surprise, all that. The slaves hadn't been given much food, and definitely too little water. A child as young as this, in a climate as unpleasant as here … . He sighed, and got out his pistol. An overseer and the boy's father – he was still chained to the other slaves – sat crouched beside the child. The father did indeed look as if he was close to tears, which was an irritating complexion on a huge, muscular savage as he was, especially with the swirling black tattoos on his face. One wouldn't expect a man like him to cry. Well this voyage was full of surprises. Solitary British noble children, brotherly love between educated pirates, crying savages. Norrington did indeed wonder if flying tigers would appear at any second. The overseer now shook his head. He turned around to Norrington.

"Sir, the boy is very ill, he can impossible keep walking."

All right then, the boy was dead, or otherwise close to that state. Norrington gave the man a nod and raised his pistol.

"Very well. We can't burden us with him, we have to move on. I will explain this to the plantation owner. Get out of the way," he informed the overseer, "I will end his suffering quickly."

The huge man shifted, and pulled the savage with him. The man uttered a cry, and resisted. The other slaves moved to help. Immediately, the Marines surrounded them and moved them away from the boy. The screaming rose. Norrington aimed at the child. Then, in the corner of his eye he saw movement.

When he turned, he saw the pirate stepping forth, the younger one, scars dark with sunburn, skin peeling on his shoulders. He stepped forward, his stance a non-threatening one, chained hands lowered, but nonetheless determined. Moved in between Norrington and the boy that now lay shivering on the ground. His eyes on the Navy officer all the time, he positioned himself with his forehead almost against the muzzle of the Ensign's pistol. His one eye, dark and bloodshot and tired, locked with Norrington's. And part of the Ensign knew right then that this was over. He looked into the man's eye and felt shivers running down his back. He'd never had somebody looking at him like this, not even with two eyes, being more powerful. Then, the pirate parted cracked lips and spoke, in a low but clear voice.

"If you want to shoot him, shoot me first, and explain the loss of two slaves to the plantation owner."

Norrington's hand with the pistol began to tire from the strain of keeping it still. He didn't want to have it look like his hand was shaking with fear.

"Move out of the way! We cannot burden us with another sick person. There is no more room in the carriage because your presumably sick brother requires it all!"

The pirate didn't move.

"You will not leave him behind like a piece of leftover baggage beside the road. He is alive. He is sick, and tired. Give him a chance to survive. I will carry him."

Norrington threw the man a glance that was almost shocked. Now there was the guy that was probably in the worst state of the whole party, and he was offering to carry the sick child. That was beyond any category Norrington could imagine. He lowered the pistol. The pirate was mad.

"Very well. If you are willing to do so, go ahead. But I warn you, if you strain yourself to the point of collapse, I will not offer you the same deliverance." The Ensign pointed to his pistol. "I will leave you behind, for the tigers to feast on."

To his surprise, the pirate smiled.

"I would be pleased to sacrifice my sorry life on the altar of beings as noble as tigers. But no worries there. I will carry the boy all the way, rest assured." With that, he turned, turned his scarred back on Norrington. He kneeled down next to the boy and touched his face carefully, feeling the heat. Then, he slowly wrapped his arms around the small form of the child and lifted him up. The strain of it was clearly visible to Norrington. Not all of the stitched cuts on his back would hold. The Ensign opened his mouth to say something, but what was there to say to a man like that? So he turned the mare and pressed his legs to its flanks. That way, he didn't see the pirate softly whispering to the boy in his arms, slowly picking up speed as he followed the party deeper into the jungle. But for the rest of the way, the Ensign felt as though there was the man's look on his back. Just whenever he turned, the pirate wasn't even remotely looking in his direction.

- - -

I know the child will die when I look into his face and he opens his eyes to look back at me. I can see the dark shadows of death inside those eyes. I can see his pain, standing out clear in front of me. I can feel death's hand on my shoulder, telling me it is too late. But I refuse to listen.

The boy is dead two hours before we reach the tea plantation. But I refuse to let the soldiers know. I bury his face in my shoulder and carry on, pulling him close, feeling the warmth desert his thin body. Just as if the mere presence of his form in my arms would give me the will to go on although there is no feeling left in my back. Only when we have reached our destination, I slowly go down on my knees and carefully set the body to the ground. I look at him, and with all my heart, I do hope he would wake up again.

He does not. I slowly raise my head to the sky. I would like to cry, but I'm spent. So all I bring forth is a sob, hoarse and inappropriate to the tragedy of the situation. Then, I let my head fall forward, and I droop over the dead body of the child, my arms buried in between his cold chest and mine, hot with fever. I close my eyes and I ask death if he can take me along because I simply am too tired to draw breath.

But death turns and laughs and waves a hand.