Little Sparrow
Summary: "Now up is down," was the last thing any of them heard before the rush of water drowned everything else out. Later, waking up on a random, deserted island, they almost immediately notice that something was not right with their Captain. Sparrington, Salazak, Willabeth, maybe others mentioned.
James woke up sitting alone in the same place he had fallen asleep last night, covered by a blanket but his lover not in sight. Still, he knew Jack was still in the cabin merely from the sight of the tan leather boots in his line of vision and the discarded shirt and waistcoat, but their owner was not in his immediate vacancy. The ex Admiral let his brain clear up some of the sleepy haze as he absently stared at the dark brown waistcoat until a thought occurred to him when he thought he saw a shape of a different color on the inside. Not bothering with modesty or dignity when he wasn't sure if anyone could even see him now, Norrington shuffled over with the blanket half draped over his shoulders, wincing when his back protested after his uncomfortable sleeping position that had seemed so worth it just a few hours ago with Jack snuggled in his arms, as he finally picked up the waistcoat and spread it over the floor so he can examine it in the dull, dawn light coming from one of the portholes and the yellowish glow of a remaining lit oil lamp.
He searched for the same slightly different shade he had seen earlier and soon found it, right in the middle of the back on the inside of the coat. Two cutlasses crossed like on a pirate flag in a black stitching that nearly blended in with the dark brown of the waistcoat's material. James examined it more closely for the rose pattern but found it missing and wondered at the story Jack had told him. The black swords were nearly invisible as he looked at them. How had Martinez spotted them so casually when James had searched for the stitching with eyes and touch together, and from a distance when it was discarded with the intention of hiding? Why would he have mistaken it as a heraldic symbol of some noble family? Did Jack really steal the waistcoat? Where was the rose?
Jack said he had made a flag/banner in this design and to natch the dress for the simple purpose of confirming 'Jaquelin's' story when he and Armando were invited to a ball Martinez was hosting. Was there already some finished flag and Jack just ... told the tailor to stitch on the swords? Or was the rose stitched on to a banner that already existed? Which part of Sparrow's story was true? Was any of it? Somehow James doubted Jack would just play along with a lie that was not his own and wing it so dangerously as to pretend to be some random noble born woman. Not even the reckless older Jack would do that.
The faintest sound of trinkets and beads being moved in the wind alerted him to the fact that Jack was indeed still in the cabin and James looked up and towards the sound. He was standing near one of the portholes, dressed only in his pants, looking out at the sea through the window as the morning breeze, chilly as it was, played with his hair. Strangely enough, James noted, he was not facing in the direction he had been staring off into for the entire journey since they found him de-aged on that random island they had washed up on after being spat out of the Locker.
For a moment, James was mesmerized by the tattoos on display. He had noticed them last night, of course - had ran his tongue over some of them, following their shapes and patterns on skin covering lithe muscles, had wondered at the story behind each one - but only now did he get to really look at them. A good part of Jack's upper back and shoulders was covered in text, but James was too far away and the light was too dim for him to make out the small print aside from seeing that it had been done by a sure, steady, elegant hand and that it was probably done some time ago. Around Jack's right bicep was a strange black circle whose insides were at places not painted to make out designs that made no sense whatsoever to Norrington. He had a chain-like design around his lower left bicep and another circle on his left shoulder blade, the design of that one ... nearly resembling two cutlasses with some flowery designs around them in seemingly concentrated circles. No, not really flowery. Just random designs to mask the shape of the two crossed swords to an uninterested eye.
James knew Jack had more tattoos on his front but his eyes focused on the circles on his right bicep and the one on his left shoulder blade. Something in his mind insisted those two were important. He wondered if he should ask Jack or not, looking back at the spread waistcoat. Had this Armando known?
"Ah, I see you're awake." Jack commented, looking over to the older man with a small smile. "Interested in the design, are you?"
"More the story you told me. I can't help but wonder how much of it is the truth and what is clever fiction." James admitted, tracing the almost invisible cutlasses. "I can't understand how someone can see the stitching. I'm touching it and this close yet it is hard for me to see it." It was as much a dare as a comment or an inquiry and Jack surprised him by answering.
"Alright, I may have lied a little about the meaning behind the flag but not all of it." Sparrow said as he walked back over to James, sitting down beside him and leaning against his side, eying the piece of clothing in front of them. Norrington did his best not to get distracted by the proximity of the younger male and instead forced himself to focus on the matter at hand. "The swords ... They are mine. My father's. My Grandmama's. My great grandfather's. Anyone who has ever sailed under my family's colors. Like a mark. A sign of belonging to one group of pirates. The rose I ordered so it would look more ... noble like. Like a crest, an emblem. A heraldic symbol of power and higher upbringing. I told you I found the dress and decided to make a flag in the same color. I just added some flair to it all. The swords, in all right, should be white as the bones and skull on a pirate flag but since I often ran away from home, my Da always insisted I wear this symbol hidden in plain sight. It was for the best. They couldn't use me against the rest of my family."
"Like my family wanted to." James added, recalling their first argument about Fitzwiliam and his little espionage mission.
Jack nodded absently as he took his waistcoat and folded it neatly and with care. "Yeah, only your family wanted to lure him in to kill him. My Da, that is. The rest would want something far more ... Well, valuable wouldn't be the right word but something like it. They would force Da's hand. And while I wouldn't have believed it when I was twelve, my Da would do whatever they wanted to ensure my safety. So we hide our relationship, never acknowledging each other as father and son, never talking to each other unless necessary. I wonder if that changed, over the years?" He mumbled to himself, a slightly hopeful gleam in his eyes. He was sick of not being able to speak openly with his own father. They rarely saw each other and yet they had to keep a distance between themselves, keep it all business with no warmth or familiarity. It was always that one thing Jack had hoped he could grow out of, his father's need to be so overprotective of him. Then again, he knew it was a futile hope but he still would like for at least the whole secrecy thing stopped.
He hated Fitzwiliam for being the sole reason his father will never get to act like his father again. Jack hoped wherever he and Lawrence Norrington were that they were suffering from fleas and plagues.
"It looks familiar." James argued, furrowing his brow in thought. He knew he saw it somewhere before, perhaps a very long time ago. He still was sure he had seen it and he was ready to bet on it. "I know I must have seen these swords somewhere before."
"You probably have, love. It's not as uncommon as you might think." Jack grinned, knowing there was indeed a lot of men wearing this symbol on some article of their clothing. There were at least half a dozen in every port in the world! Some even in more inland towns. Shipwreck Cove had to stay in touch with the rest of the world, after all.
James decided not to dwell on it any further and instead stood up, dragging Jack with him. He was pleasantly surprised that he was not sticky and wondered just when Jack had woken up to clean them both up. His eyes trailed over the smaller man's torso and the accumulation of tattoos there, wondering if any of them should be considered special but his mind was still stuck on the two circles. One was a hidden heraldic symbol marked on Jack's very skin, claiming him as his family's. What was the other?
He thumb traced the healthy, smooth skin under the flying sparrow in the sunset tattoo that screamed to the world who this pirate was. So he had not yet met Beckett. He was still a free man who could be on either side of the law, depending on how he chose and how inconspicuous he remained. He was not yet branded a pirate but was still no less a pirate now than he was twenty years older.
Jack watched him with intrigued black eyes, head cocked to the side, wondering what it was James was tracing on his skin. Seeing that his lover was distracted, Jack leaned up and kissed him under the jaw, enjoying how James started at the action, snapping back to attention. He smiled wickedly as he started pulling James towards the bed. There were some hours still before the Crossing and before Jack was needed on deck to make sure no one wrecks his beloved ship. James went with a throaty chuckle, tackling Jack as they fell on the bed, the two a bit preoccupied by each other to notice an object going through a slight tremor on the map table.
The Compass, unattended, was trembling, its needle shuddering, its owner completely oblivious to the change and the danger it was warning about.
00000
The first scream was soon followed by others, men shouting in panic as a ... monstrosity sailed towards the Flying Dutchman, easily almost twice its size and no doubt having twice as many men and cannons aboard. The mortal sailors were uselessly shooting their muskets at the approaching shipwreck, only the most basic of skeletal remains of its hull supporting the decks, the masts almost tittering dangerously, looking somewhere between ready to snap and snapped. The sails on said masts were torn up and burned through in places, darkened gray from their previous no doubt pristine white color, a giant eagle painstakingly carefully woven in a previously dark reddish color that was now more black than it will ever be red again. The floorboards of the main deck were missing in some places, broken in others, burned to cinders in others still. The railing was apparently blown up in some spots. Some of the remaining infrastructure of the hull showed signs of cannon fire, others of obviously being crushed against the protruding rocks from the dark, dark, red lit sea. The lava from the underwater volcano must have done the final blow to this once magnificent ship, for it was charred so badly it was nearly as black as the Black Pearl.
More terrifying than this cursed vessel were the men manning her. Ghosts. Apparitions from hell itself, solid yet undying. Dressed in black, parts of their bodies missing yet what is left of those body parts still operating as though they were whole and connected to the rest of the body, the leftover skin on their faces and hands either blackened or blue from their watery grave. Black slime dribbled from their mouths, their hair and clothing floating about as though they were still underwater, somehow both soaked and dry as they stalked and boarded from one cursed ship to another. They cannot be killed by stabs and cuts and guns and dismemberment. They spat curses and vile sounding words in Spanish at the combined crew of ordinary English sailors and the cursed crew of the Flying Dutchman. The few foolish men who dared attack them were cut down like rabid dogs by rusted swords. Soon enough, the entire front of the ship was swarming with these black, cursed ghosts, the rest of the free men too afraid to dare approach them. Beckett found himself surrounded with Mercer, Jones and both EITC men and the Dutchman's unlucky crew, facing certain death.
But it never came. Instead, the Spanish curses turned into an outright uproar as half of the weapons were pointed at one only slightly disturbed Hugo Lopez, the rest keeping Jones and the others at bay. A tapping of a cane against the wooden planks stopped any further chaos and everything fell eerily silent, only that echoing tapping and the sound of heavy, booted footsteps filling in the creepy atmosphere.
A tall man, as cursed as the rest, came to stand in front of the other ghosts, facing the only living Spaniard aboard both cursed ships. The skin of his once handsome face was hideously cracked, blue and no longer a visage of what it once had been. Long, flowing black hair was no longer held back by a hair tie as it had been in life, instead floating around the man as though with the waves under both ships. A part of his head was mossing, as though blown apart by an explosion and some lighthearted sailor vomited his dinner up right there on the deck when he saw it. The Spanish ghosts sneered at him but made no other noise in respect of the man now on deck. His jacket was now as black as the rest of the crew's, when it had once been striped with horizontal white patches to indicate his rank. The few decorations still adoring his proud chest were as rusted and charred as the rest of him. He walked with a limp that had never existed in his living years. His lips were blue with cold, water and death and his eyes flashed with rage terrifying enough that Hugo's impassiveness finally faded, replaced with the paleness of fear.
"Capitán Hugo Lopez, you dare come here to mock me?!" The man thundered, tapping his cane twice on the wooden boards of the Dutchman's deck and Beckett watched in horror as two men were killed in cold blood, one an EITC marine, the other a cursed sailor of the Flying Dutchman. Jones made no reaction but the thinning of his lips while Mercer held desperately tightly to his weapon, although he did his best not to show how petrified he actually was. "I should execute a traitor like you here were I stand!"
"Capitán, señor, please have mercy!" Lopez cried out as the larger Spaniard took hold of his neck and unsheathed his sword, preparing to follow through with his words.
"Mercy? Mercy!? There is no mercy for a traitor like you, you wretched pirate scum!"
"Señor, por favor! Capitán, show mercy!" The desperate man begged but to no avail. The other Spaniards watched with disgusted sneers on their ghostly, cracked faces, no pity or sympathy for what appeared to have once been their comrade. "Capitán! I beg you!"
"Adios, Lopez," the man said as he drew back his sword, ready to pierce Hugo's heart when the only alive Spaniard cried out the one thing that could have saved his life.
"I saw him! I saw him, Capitán! I saw him!"
The Captain of the ghost crew and the skeleton ship stopped - ironically - dead in his tracks, his sword only piercing Hugo's clothing and nicking the skin underneath. Hugo hissed at the sting but dared not move or say anymore as the dead man stared blankly at him for a long moment before a ... peculiar look lit up his eyes. Seeing the one chance to save his miserable life, Lopez continued babbling.
"I saw him, Capitán. I saw him. I saw him. Him. I saw him, Capitán. I saw the one who destroyed your Silent Mary." He sighed in relief when he was put back onto his own two feet, no matter how shaky they might have been. "I saw Jack Sparrow, Capitán Salazar."
"Jack Sparrow," came the raspy almost whisper from the ghost of the once great Capitán Armando Salazar, now no more than a ghost of his former self. Quite literally, at that. The face of rage became blank in the blink of an eye and Beckett briefly wondered what Jack had done to this one. Other than kill him and utterly destroy his reputation by defeating him the way he had. The legend of El Matador Del Mar all but disappeared some time before Beckett met Jack Sparrow for the first time. What was the story behind the way that single name affected Salazar to this point.
"Yes, I saw him. I saw him, Armando-aargh!" He didn't get to finish the less formal version of his earlier please for life, for Salazar had stabbed him through with his rusty sword mercilessly, the cold glint back in his eyes. "Ca-capitán!" The wounded man gasped desperately, looking up with shocked eyes at the pride and joy and star of the Spanish Navy with pleading eyes.
Salazar leaned in closer to the dying man and whispered with his chilly breath into the man's ear. "You shall never lay eyes on him again, traitorous scum." With that promise, Salazar threw the man overboard and he sank, dead cursed sharks coming to tear apart his body before the life could even fully seep out of him. The British men were already shaking in fear when he turned to them and they all fell to the deck, begging for their lives pathetically. Sick of their whining and sniveling, Salazar tapped his cane against the deck three more times and his men killed three of the groveling men, making the rest go mute with fear. Satisfied with the silence, the Spanish Captain turned back to the three men 'in charge', appraising them with critical eyes before they narrowed dangerously at Jones. He tapped his cane twice and two of the cursed crewmen of the Flying Dutchman were hurled overboard, dragged to the fiery depths by Salazar's pet zombie sharks. Their screams echoed even above water and Jones even flinched at the sound. "I have warned you not to come back here, hombre. Yet you did not listen and now your men are paying the price. You dare bring me that mockery of my life," he pointed with his cane to where he had thrown Sanchez. "Here? You and anyone else are not wanted here, Davy Jones. Take your little amigos and leave before I order for you to be executed, one by one."
"I am no more willin' to be here than ya are, Spanish." Jones spat angrily, pointing an accusing and half threatening claw at Beckett. "It's 'is damned fault I 'ave ta suffer yer presence an' ya mine."
Salazar in turn then cast his eyes on the shortest man there, arching an eyebrow at the clear fear, but also calculation he could see there. This one made even him, a ghost, uneasy. "And what is your purpose here, hombre? What could possibly lead you to come here?"
"I believe that ... Mr Lopez has led us here to speak with you." Beckett actually had the balls to admit and all of his men flinched when the ghost Captain's eyes flashed, his hand twitching on his cane, as though just itching to tap-tap-tap the deck and send even more men to their deaths. Which actually seemed to be the case, as the crew of the Silent Mary were preparing for that order to be given at any second. Knowing that any more stalling will only cost more men, Beckett hurried to continue, hoping he will survive this encounter. "I wish to make a proposal to you, Captain."
Salazar's hand stilled, looking at the little Lord shrewdly. "And what is this proposal you have for me, señor ... ?"
"Lord Cutler Beckett, actually. Of the East India Trading Company." Growing bolder by not being struck down yet, Beckett extended an almost shaking hand for the Spaniard to shake. He hastily drew it back when Salazar looked tempted to cut it off, his eyes flashing dangerously again. The Englishman wondered why but dared not ask.
"The East India Trading Company," the ghost drawled as though it were a peculiarly foul tasting poison on his tongue but was too polite to outright spit it in Beckett's face. "And why should I degrade the honor of my men and my ship by considering any of your proposals, señor Beckett?"
"Excuse me?" Before he could stop himself, Cutler seethed into the dead man's face ... or rather chest, since he could only reach about that high. Needless to say, the Spaniard wasn't impressed. "And that's Lord Beckett to you."
"That's nice." Came the sarcastic, sardonic reply, the cane lifting over the deck. A man whimpered somewhere behind the two Englishmen and the Captain of the Flying Dutchman. "You have not answered my question, or given me a good enough reason to keep you alive yet. And I am finding my patience rather ... see through these days."
Swallowing the fear due to his bruised pride, Beckett lifted his chin, as though that would make him look more intimidating or impressive. The ghost of a man with an eye patch sneered behind Salazar, who only arched a brow once again, as if in challenge. Beckett, foolish as he was, was ready to take it. "Captain Jones over here informs me that he can free you from this place as long as a bargain is struck. As you can probably guess, I control the Dutchman now." If he had expected the Capitán to react, he was disappointed when his face didn't change from it's impassive expression. Beckett's lips thinned. "You can strike a bargain with me that I assure you would be most profitable and satisfactory to us both."
"Capitán, let us just slaughter the English pigs and we can go back to the way it was before!" One of the other ghosts called out and a man started bawling at the rear end of the Dutchman. A bead of sweat was trailing down Mercer's face as he held his weapons in a tight, turning shaky grip.
"But if you do that, you won't get your chance for revenge!" Beckett hoped he sounded as persuasive as he'd heard Sparrow being in the past, or at least as half as. That man could get anything he wanted if he truly bothered to bargain for it, which he rarely did. Even to save his own hide.
Salazar paused, his men looking amongst each other. Beckett counted it as a win on his part. "Revenge?" The cursed ghost asked, as though confused, but Beckett neither noticed nor cared. He was sure he had found the right leverage. The Flying Dutchman had not been enough for him. The Silent Mary was too tempting a ship in his service to ignore.
"Yes. You see, I'm leading a campaign against piracy, but they have all ran and hid in this supposedly neigh impenetrable fortress-"
"The Shipwreck Island." Salazar cut in knowingly, feeling the stirrings of amusement somewhere deep down. Not that it showed.
"Yes." Beckett answered, trying to keep his irritation at bay. "And the only one who I'd expect to be able to drag them out escaped me without the chance for a bargain. Or for my own revenge." He met those strange, dark eyes with his own, holding the piercing gaze as best as he could. "I've been told that if anyone can get a reaction out of this person, who is our common enemy, it's you." He could see stirrings of interest in Salazar's demeanor so he quickly added. "Think about it. I hear we share a goal: to rid these waters, and all others, of pirates for good. You can get your revenge if only you sail with me to Shipwreck Cove. Do we have a deal?"
"And who might this person be, that is our common foe?" Salazar asked even as his hand extended, as if ready to shake on it but refusing to go in blind. Cutler smiled. He could get used to some intelligent company. He got it so rarely since the day he met Sparrow. No one seemed to compare to his sharp wit and sharper tongue. Admiral James Norrington had showed promise, as had young Miss Swann, but they were both far too naive to the ways of the world. Perhaps a man who had been Jack's enemy might provide better company.
"Jack Sparrow."
A murmur seemed to rise like a hurricane over the ghost crew as soon as the name was uttered, glances exchanged, weapons gripped tighter, mouths pulled into a thin line, eyes narrowed in distaste. Salazar had gone stiff, only his hair moving with nonexistent winds - or waves, in this particular case. Then a slow smile, gruesome in its black slime dripping case as it was, spread across his face and Beckett was sure he was staring at death. He almost felt sorry for Jack Sparrow. It was clear all these men wanted revenge for their deaths. But Beckett found himself eager to see Jack Sparrow brought down a peg or two.
He almost started when Salazar seized his hand and shook it firmly, his fingers cold.
"We have an accord, señor Beckett."
Cutler was too relieved to bother with correcting him on his title. The Flying Dutchman lurched backwards when Jones started barking orders, clearing up the way for the Spanish galleon to exit, for the first time in twenty years, the darkness of the Devil's Triangle and sail into the daylight.
Salazar's smile looked even more terrifying now that the men could see it clearly in the early morning light.
"I'm coming for you, Jack the Sparrow."
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The needle of one special Compass, leagues away, jerked once before it started moving.