Summary: "'Words can't keep a man alive, not in this time an' age. I almost wish the world worked that way for ye, lad. Almost.'" Barbossa and Jack talk about the harsh realities of both the Locker and the world. Takes place in the Locker during AWE. One-shot.
Prompt: A character experiences deja vu so strong they almost fall over.
A/N: Partially inspired by the Dorocha in S4E1 and S4E2 of Merlin. References to my one-shot Deception. This ended up going way beyond what I originally had planned, but I love it.
Cries Of The Damned
Jack Sparrow, captain of the Black Pearl, stood at the portside railing of his ship, overlooking the dark waters of Davy Jones's Locker. The water reflected the night sky, but there was a darkness to it that not even the brightest light could rid of. It was silent, save for a few murmurs of his crew and the other passengers on the ship talking quietly. The sound of the waves moving was so quiet that one would have to strain his ears if he wanted to hear it.
The Locker truly was a God forsaken place.
Though Jack would know. He'd been trapped there for weeks, if not months, on end.
The dark, cold waters were a strong contrast to the bright, burning sun of the desert he'd originally been trapped in. The desert had been lonely, but the waters were filled with the souls of the dead. The air radiated of mourning, of sorrow. It was maddening.
He couldn't wait to breath in the fresh air of the world of the living, to hear the sounds of the waves, to be free of the suffocating anguish of those who had perished at sea. He couldn't wait to be alive again. After all, technically, he was dead. He'd been devoured by the Kraken itself.
The worst part about being dead in the Locker, unlike his crew, was that he could hear the cries of the drifting souls that passed by; their death cries. He may only be able to hear them at night, but his imagination kept replaying them during the day. Any joy at being rescued was buried in the horror of the screams.
He flinched as one particular shriek nearly burst his eardrums.
"Jack." The voice was that of Hector Barbossa, recently back from the dead himself.
On edge already, a wave of deja vu made the pirate captain's hand snap to the hilt of his sword before he turned around, struggling not to let his uneasiness cause him to collapse.
"What?" His own voice was sharp, almost harsh.
Instead of pulling out two pistols and shooting him, as Jack had expected, Barbossa joined him at the rail. "Can ye hear them?"
Another long, tortured scream rang out.
"Can you?" Jack asked, his voice significantly quieter than it had been previously.
"Aye. They say anyone who's ever been dead can hear the cries of the damned."
"I wish I couldn't."
"To hear 'em is somethin' I'd never wish upon a man." Barbossa agreed. "Tis said the screams drive men mad."
"I went mad a long time ago, mate, don't worry." He shuddered against another screech. "But it doesn't lessen anythin' else."
"We best interpret those charts upon the dawn, lest we remain 'ere another night."
"That's one thing we can agree on then."
The pair fell silent for a long moment, listening to the variety of different shrieks and screams that the dead released. The younger of them was tense, unable to block them out. The older remained calm, his muscles loose, though he was aware of his companion's struggle to keep himself under control.
"Ye never liked fightin'. Not from the day I met ye. I reckon it was the screams that made ye stick to words over a sword." Barbossa mused, the last sentence uttered with a hint of teasing.
Jack glanced at him, forcing his voice to remain steady. "'M not like ye, mate. Killin' isn't always the answer to everythin', useful as it is sometimes. Why fight when ye can negotiate?"
"That's the thinkin' that got ye 'ere to begin with, Jack." His rival pointed out. "Words can't keep a man alive, not in this time an' age."
He knew he was right. "It's fun to try, mate."
"I almost wish the world worked that way for ye, lad. Almost."
"In another world, we'd have made a pair to be reckoned with, eh?"
