The vast underground cavern is barely lit; eerie reddish light filters through the cracks in the stone, tinging the grey walls, making them seem as if they burn with an inner fire. Stalagmites rise from the hardened earth like the clawed fingers of a buried man's desperate hand, struggling in vain to free himself from his horrific fate. Stalactites hang precariously from the top of the 24-foot high vaulted ceiling, appearing as if the slightest breeze could bring them crashing to the ground like deadly icicles. Bats screech ominously from the shadows and their leathery wings rustle together in impatience, hidden in the darkness bar for their scarlet glowing eyes.
He hangs up limply against the hard, unmerciful stone, the cold seeping through the back of his light shirt and chilling him to the bone. His wrists are shackled with cold irons, so cold they seem as if they're burning into his skin. Dazed, he lifts his head in confusion. "Where am I?" He mutters pitifully. Inwardly he cringes at the pain and weakness expressed in his voice. A sharp prod to his ribs makes him cry out in pain, his body arcing against the fire that suddenly ripples through his torso. His hoarse shout echoes amongst the cavern, multiplying in intensity and volume until the rocks swallow up his voice, devouring his screams eagerly, hungrily. The pain is almost unbearable; inhumane. His eyes cleared by the shock of the hurt, he looks up through his dank and matted hair, breathing heavily as he attempts to control his hammering heart.
He stands before Jack, dark and dangerous, both impossibly handsome and heart-stoppingly ugly. He's tall and impossibly lean, his dark cloak turned up at the collar and the coat-tails billowing out slightly by an unfelt wind. The man's skin is an almost translucent white, his hair the blue-black colour of a raven's feather. But his eyes… His eyes are a bottomless, merciless black; the iris's a fiery, scorching red. He holds in his extremely long fingers a three-pronged triton, twirling it lightly in jest. The man tips his head back in pride and conceit, in recognition of Jack's observations of him.
"Jack Sparrow." He says familiarly, as if they were old acquaintances.
"Captain; Captain Jack Sparrow." Jack murmurs. The man laughs, a deep chuckle that echoes around the vaulted stone ceiling.
"Ever the self-propagandist." The man grins, "We go way back, don't we Jack?" He reminds Jack. Jack nods curtly in recognition.
"Lucifer." He acknowledges. The Devil grins.
"So you do remember!" He exclaims silkily, delightfully. "Then again, it's not like you to forget old friends. And we've gone back such a long way. Right from your early days. All those souls you killed, slain by the tip of your blade or the end of your pistol. Every time you looked into their dying eyes, you were looking into mine, and you enjoyed it, didn't you?" He doesn't allow for Jack to speak; doesn't give him time to defend himself. He draws in closer to Jack's face, taunting him.
"You were such fun back then, Jack. You were so promising; so full of anger, so full of hate, so full of evil. It made me proud. But then you changed. That anger lessened; it dissolved, it died. What happened, Jack?" The Devil frowns; hurt. "I thought you'd all but disappeared, and I missed you. But then there was the curse of Cortes's. He was such a crafty man, so cunning. I was so sure you wouldn't figure that one out…so sure I'd finally be able to claim you back… but no, you slipped away. Out of my fingers and clutches…until now." His voice is soft and compelling, hypnotic and mesmerising. Jack turns his head away in disgust, but the Devil cups Jack's chin and forces his face upward, his clawed nails raking at Jack's cheeks, leaving little droplets of blood. He grins predatorily at Jack, fangs and pointed teeth gleaming.
Still grinning he thrusts the pronged fork at Jack's shoulder, the spikes sinking into Jack's flesh; burning, blistering, searing. Again Jack howls in pain, and the Devil smirks as he slowly draws the pitchfork back out, prolonging Jack's pain; enjoying it, savouring it, tasting it. "Just a little reminder. Your pitiful soul belongs to me, Captain." He mocks, twirling the bloodied pitchfork around in his hands.
Jack's head, which had previously dropped to his chest as he struggled to keep conscious, drew up. Looking him straight in his empty eyes, Jack challenges, "So come and get me." Eyes narrowing in rage, Lucifer drove his pronged pitchfork into Jack's chest, scraping past bones and spearing straight into his heart.
Soooo, what happens to Jack? Poor Jack; I think nine times out of ten chapters the guy's in danger of losing his life/a limb/ something major. What can I say; he's just one of those guys that attracts trouble. It comes with the profession.
Annnnnd, I was reading one of Honorat's FF's – damn… Very sobering… The story is pure genius. It's got all this historically accurate terminology, sailing and nautical lingo; the works. Being an English teacher with interests in sailing and history must help, but wow… if you go for that type of historically correct stuff – and the narrative and descriptions are beautiful too, by the way – I suggest you read it, if you haven't already. I was blown away. I am both envious and jealous, which are sort of the same thing anyway.
DCoD – Yeah, the wine was drugged. Yeah, Jack's not too happy about that. The Devil is; it gives him a chance to taunt Jack before his six days are up and he becomes the Devil's permanent property.
Lonaargh – Yay! You're back! Hope your holidays were great fun/ restful/ whatever you look for in holidays.