The second chapter in my Island Fic with all the deleted scenes. Imagine--I got a whole chapter out of half a deleted scene. How do you spell obsession? This one I could use some help on. I did my best to research the process of cleaning a flintlock muzzleloader pistol. However, I don't know if I've managed to cover it well at all or if I've missed important steps. I don't know a thing about firearms. I just went by my experience rescuing a table saw from being caught out in the rain--take it all apart and dry everything. Any expert help out there would be welcome. Cookies to the ones who catch the allusion to Herman Melville's Moby Dick. That man understood obsession. Anyway, this one is all Jack. Yay!

Rating: T
Pairing: None
Cast: Jack and Elizabeth
Disclaimer: The movie belongs to the mouse, the performance to the lovely Johnny and Kiera, the script to Ted and Terry.

Note: This is now in the process of being edited for technical details thanks to the wonderful kindness and experience of chikkiboo. Any errors remain mine and will be corrected as soon as they are pointed out to me.

Black Powder Ritual
By Honorat Selonnet

Behind the departing Elizabeth, Jack was settling down in the depressingly familiar white sand, stripping off his boots and hanging them on sticks to dry. Might as well pretend there was going to be a use for boots again. Shedding his vest, he added that to the heap of drying things. As soon as he had his effects taken care of, he would get to the rum. Let Elizabeth explore the island. He could tell her what was on it. In detail. Down to the last bloody palm frond. He had this island memorized. There was lots of sand. Too much. He bloody hated land. The only thing land was good for was picking up provisions, rum, and pleasurable company. Then it was best to get away from land as quickly as possible, preferably on an ebb tide with a brisk seaward wind. Now here he was stuck on land again. Instead of the smooth undulating wood of a deck, unmoving sand gritted under his feet. And the conch shells. He really should have mentioned the conch shells to Elizabeth. She was going to cut up her feet. He squinted up the beach at the diminishing figure. Her shift was the colour of sand, and in the waves of heat she was almost invisible. As he watched, the tiny figure gave a startled hop and bent over. Too late. She'd already discovered the conch shells.

He shrugged and turned his attention to his baldric and pistol. One shot. Unbidden, Barbossa's words echoed in his mind: "Then you can be the gentleman and shoot the lady." His stomach had turned at the idea even then. One more reason Barbossa was the kind of scum the earth would be well rid of. This shot was not for the lady. Oh no. He would, he smirked, be the gentleman and shoot the villain. Well, at least he would be the villain who shot the bigger villain. That was a deed worthy of this tale. If there was one ray of light in all this shadow it was that with the shedding of Will's blood, Barbossa would be mortal again. And once he was mortal, he would have an appointment with death. And he, Captain Jack Sparrow, would be of invaluable assistance in making sure Barbossa met that appointment as swiftly as possible. He would get off this island and chase that mutinous bastard around the Cape of Good Hope, around the horn of South America, from Tropic of Cancer to Tropic of Capricorn, from pole to pole, and back again if need be. For a minute his mind teased him with the fear that he would not get off the island. Very well. He would come back from the flames of hell and slay Barbossa. But for now, the weapon must be prepared for its intended victim.

He drew the precious pistol and set about rescuing his shot and powder from their sudden dunking. In the ten years since the mutiny, cleaning this pistol had become a ritual for Jack. It had always to be kept ready to fire that fatal shot. Memories of Barbossa's crimes against him he generally kept thoroughly clapped in irons in the dark below decks of his mind. There were some things that didn't bear looking at too often. But at each step of the process of maintaining his weapon, he would haul one memory up, clean it off and polish it. The familiar motions kept the rabid memories just enough at bay. The recital of those memories kept his purpose bright before him like a polar star.

With his sash, already drying in the heat, he rubbed the exterior of the pistol, cradling the slim barrel in the soft cloth, polishing the silver chasing. He remembered waking in the night to the cold kiss of steel at his throat, the hateful shouts of men he had trusted, the iron taste of blood on his tongue, the even more bitter taste of betrayal, the flame of torches, the burn of rope. He still occasionally woke with the nightmares. That time, he had fought them, at impossible odds. He had been a bloody idiot. Since then, he had learned to avoid fighting wherever possible. Much better to wait for the opportune moment. Carefully he unscrewed the lock mechanism, drying the hammer, the flint, the frizzen and the mainspring. No rust should interrupt this shot. He aimed the pistol out to sea, towards where the Black Pearl had disappeared. The opportune moment would come. Barbossa would pay.

Next, he dried the pan, and with a wire untwined from his hair, cleared the touch hole. Blowing away a few stray grains of sand, he remembered this island the first time. Remembered being surrounded by water but with nothing to drink. Too beaten and injured to climb a tree for a coconut. Too few coconut palms anyway. Lips cracking with heat and thirst. Trying to find relief in the shade of palms. He remembered the tree by which he had collapsed, dizzy, his head pounding and his muscles cramping, vomiting after trying sea water in desperation. Staring down the muzzle of this pistol, mesmerized by the possibilities. Swearing he would live, and Barbossa would pay.

He pried the patch and shot free. The small round ball rolled out of the end of the barrel into his fingers. Jack dried it on his shirt and held it up to contemplate its symmetry. A sphere. Every line converging on its beginning. He remembered his last words to his friend and mentor Bootstrap, spoken as he saw the older man seething with anger as his young captain was dragged up onto the deck of the Black Pearl by the mutineers. "Please William, don't do anything stupid." But honest Bill had to be a bloody idiot, he did. A wife and kid at home, and he had to antagonize Barbossa. Had to get himself tossed into the sea with a cannon for an anklet. Lot of good that did anyone. Jack rolled the ball between his thumb and forefinger. He remembered hearing in a tavern in Tortuga what had become of Bootstrap. He did not remember how he had got out of that tavern that night. Barbossa would pay.

Pouring the black powder from the barrel, he spread it to dry on his vest. With the rod removed from his pistol, he rammed the fabric of his sash into the bore. Now he had a new set of memories for the ritual. His beloved Pearl, her winged canvas in tatters, her hull uncareened, her figurehead chipping and peeling, the lace of her rigging torn, the gloss of her decks gone to matt. The only part of her Barbossa seemed to care about was the captain's cabin. Then there was the monkey named Jack; his lip curled at the thought. He rotated the ramrod gently. He remembered the fiery death of the bonnie little Interceptor. Jack had held her helm long enough to forgive her for her Royal Navy ancestry. With canvas held high, she had carried them sweetly through that terrible storm. A brave swift ship, deserving of a longer life to sport gaily with the sea.

Taking out the oiled cloth he kept tucked in his baldric, he did his best to oil the bore. The job would need redoing when he had access to grease. He added to the list of Barbossa's crimes his return to this godforsaken island. Sand and palm trees and more sand. No fresh water. Barbossa intended this to be death for him and Elizabeth; it might yet be death for them. And finally, Bootstrap's son. Another bloody idiot just like his father. Barbossa would kill the boy. As always, Jack reassembled his weapon with slow cold fury, replacing the flintlock, reinserting the powder, patch and ball, and pulling the hammer back ever so gently until it notched halfway up. Then he closed the frizzen, covering the pan. The pistol was again ready to fire. He swore he would live, and Barbossa would pay.

TBC