Author's note: Major swordfighting time! To avoid confusion: "Moke" is an old word for donkey that I bumbled upon in a thesarus. Thank you to meowbooks for the very thoughtful reviews! If you're looking for insight into the POTC characters with a perfect mixture of humor and delicious angst, read her fanfic Look Around. You'll be glad you did!
A huge THANK YOU goes to jedipati for betaing this chapter! I'm not really sure how I managed without a beta before this.
Pirates of the Caribbean belongs to Disney!
Whose addlepated abstraction was this? Hmm...modestly sized room that narrows to a pointless back door, dust, dust, dust…donkey. Or mule? Burro? Jennet? Moke?
This had to have been a barn. Though the place smelled reminiscent of animals, its only barn-like inhabitant was the donkey/mule/burro/jennet/moke. It stood sleeping in a shallow, round pit, harnessed to an elaborate bellows. Jack's eyes followed the bellows back to a furnace. Then he saw the cart wheels stashed in a corner, and an iron gate neatly stowed against a wall.
Aha an' eureka! This was a seemingly deserted metal smith's shop. If Jack had had a lucky talisman on his person, he would have kissed it, but since he considered himself a lucky talisman, he refrained and simply strode down a long, flat cart into the shop. In the breathless light he strode up to the furnace. Surrounded by a sea of tidy tools, it jutted from the wall at an angle, a square, purposeful piece of stone art.
The metal strips lying on the hearth did not escape Jack's attention. Standing beside a worn anvil, he glanced around, the heat from the crackling furnace warming his lean cheek. Again, the shop seemed to be abandoned.
Jack slapped his brown hat onto the counter with renewed hurry. He pulled free a small sledge from a leather loop nailed to the side of the workbench.
Clonk–
A bottle's hollow impact on straw. Jack Sparrow whirled to the right, his black-lined eyes huge.
In the dim corner of the shop, a stocky man wearing a worn leather apron sprawled on three barrels. The fallen bottle lay near his feet, empty.
Jack's eyes lingered on the bottle. Tsk, the rum's gone. Tragic ain't it, mate? I know the feeling…
Still holding the sledge, he carefully approached the curly-bearded man and discovered the other man was snoring softly. Frowning ponderously, Jack quickly prodded the man's chest with two fingers. He shot back as the man mumbled. Then the snoring resumed. Jack straightened and turned away.
He wheeled and bellowed, "Whoa!" and then jumped back warily, manacles clinking, to see what would happen.
The drunk's snoring never wavered. Just as I thought.
Jack retreated. He bent over the large anvil, placing his hands–one holding the sledge–on either side, so his chain was stretched over the anvil's surface. He braced himself and focused.
The first blow grazed the chain with a clang. He gathered his concentration and struck again. Once, twice, thrice, four times, the sledgehammer rang with mocking uselessness. Jack threw it onto the anvil and straightened, his teeth bared as he tugged at the untouched chain.
Then his eyes lifted, caught, and brightened with possibility…then trailed to the sleeping donkey.
He turned and grabbed the nearest object projecting from the hearth and came up with an evil hook that glowed brilliant orange. His gaze, heavily lidded, slid to the donkey once more.
There was no shallow pit beneath the second bellows gear, but its shaft still had four nasty spokes for a harness. Each was shin height and long as a lance, waiting to give somebody a nasty trip. Jack carefully stepped past these. Countless leather loops laden with mostly sledgehammers hung from the motionless gears' undersides, waiting to conk one over the head. He ducked under those.
A few seconds later, the unsuspecting jennet's head jerked up and it gave an agonized cry as a sizzling sound filled the air. It lunged into a brisk stride, and a shaking rumble grew as the gears slowly began to rotate and the bellows blow. Jack inspected the flaming hair on his iron, then coolly whirled it around and put it away.
The iron taken care of, Jack threw his chain over one of the large gear's giant cogs. On tiptoe, he slowly moved with it toward its meshing point with a smaller gear, and in only seconds, a gratifying pop sounded as the heavy cogs of both gears snapped the chain without pause. Jack drew away, exuberantly taking in his freedom.
Past his sore wrists, a shadow had appeared at the door. Jack's eyes focused on the door just as the pass-through door's lock lifted–
Will Turner had taken the long way home. He had needed the time to sort his mind out.
But just when he could finally live with himself, Billy Stover had run up and blurted that a pirate trying to escape the law had almost killed Elizabeth Swann. 'The Commodore found her lying in a very compromised position...she was wearing almost nothin' …the brute put a gun to her head...'
Will did not have a naturally vicious character. He liked donkeys and chickens and tried to make everyone happy. But in that moment of consuming, white-hot rage, he had felt he could stab someone through the heart, and watch the red, red blood come. He had wanted to.
And he still did. There were no words to describe his horror, his need to avenge the young woman he had idolized ever since she had so selflessly promised to watch over him. What he felt was deep as marrow, blacker than shadows deepened by fear, and stickier than the hottest pitch.
After stalking a while in a haze of fury, he managed to reason himself into a boil. He had a smithy to maintain. And Elizabeth's world was on a higher plane than his was. He could stand, look up, and wish to touch her universe, but until he could fly, he would just have to grit his teeth and make his plane of existence all he could.
It felt like dying.
Now, he rolled his shoulders to loosen them as he maneuvered the door of the shop open. The welcome thought of changing his clothes was a tiny sunrise on a midnight horizon.
He heard a familiar rumble as he opened the door. Mellie? He stepped into the shop, gazing perplexed at the circling donkey as he slowly latched the door. He stepped to the edge of the ledge looked the shop over.
Empty.
He hesitated. He had worked in this place since he was a sprout of a boy and knew how normal felt. Normal was not what he was feeling now. Still, with this day's unsettling events, why should a mule trying to get some exercise seem strange?
He vaulted smoothly off the step and hurried to the marching animal's side. He caught her and stroked her forehead and nose. She keened fuzzily, long-lashed eyes very downcast.
With one last pat, Will straightened. Focus. Must finish the hinges. But get this blasted cravat off me first… He strode into the shop, tugging at his neck cloth, shrugging off his overcoat with relief. Loosening the upper buttons of his waistcoat, he stopped when he saw Mr. Brown. He had hoped his master would have revived and gone into the house. Instead, Mr. Brown just snored. "Right where I left you," Will smiled bitterly, then moved to the furnace to put the finishing touches on Mr. Harrison's hinges.
A small sledge lay on the anvil. He frowned at it, tossing his coat onto the counter. "Not where I left you."
Then he saw a worn brown hat on his workbench and uneasily reached for it. Something struck the back of his hand. A sword. Heart in his throat, he jumped back.
A delicately featured man faced him, blade and ready, though his stance was wobbly and his eyes childishly wide. A wide strip of faintly patterned red fabric circled his head, and the beads in his hair clicked as he advanced in the wake of Will's slow retreat.
Will felt the blood in his veins slow as realization dawned. Then his blood was rushing faster than ever before. Satisfaction and a ferocious need to harm twisted into a snake that bit away every distraction and reduced him to a single thought, a spyglass that focused so intensely, he could see every pore on the pirate's nose; could hear every secretive crunch of straw. It was frightening. It was beyond exhilarating.
You will pay.
"You're the one they're hunting." He glared. "The pirate."
Jack Sparrow frowned; peered in a baffled manner. "You seem somewhat familiar. Have I threatened you before?"
"I make a point of avoiding familiarity with pirates." Will's voice was cold enough to freeze brine.
"Ah." The frown loosened as the pirate tilted his head back. He lowered his sword. "Well. It would be a shame to put a black mark on your record." He stepped back and politely dipped, "So if you'll excuse me . . ." He turned to retrieve his hat.
Will lunged and grabbed a sword from the nearest rack nearest. He pointed the blade at Jack, who stopped and wheeled. This pirate's swaying manner really was unnerving.
"D'you think this's wise, boy?" His eyes looked steadily to Will's. "Crossing blades with a pirate?"
Will pointed his sword straight at his face, wrist at an angle that displayed experience. "You threatened Miss Swann."
Will's obvious training had not escaped Jack's attention, but it was with confidence the hunted pirate raised his sword and placed it against Will's. It grated as, fluidly, he slid it forward, back. Will tensed warily. Jack smiled. "Only a little."
Quiet like a bowstring settled. Then Jack abruptly attacked Will, testing, and Will retreated, parrying each strike with angry crispness. The harsh ring of the blades faded as the pirate paused and Will waited.
Again Jack lunged at Will, upping his offensive. Will parried, again retreating; again flawlessly repelling each of Jack's attempts. Then, just when Will was about to back into the high step he slipped through Jack's guard in a neat riposte; the pirate scrambled to avoid his whistling blade.
Having caught the surprise in Jack's eyes, Will smugly pointed his blade at Jack's face again. Then it was his turn to attack, and he threw himself into his effort with energy. Jack gave ground steadily, warier now, carefully parrying Will's lightning attempts. Then Jack was about to hit the counter and Will gave a vicious thrust. Jack slipped aside, trapped Will's blade; they shoved off, disengaged.
The clatter off their blades melted into the straw as they shifted and stared.
"You know what you're doing, I'll give y'that," the pirate said with his loose-jawed accent. "Excellent form." A quiet singing of metal rang out as their blades brushed lightly. "But how's your footwork?" Jack squinted, then sidestepped to the right in a circle; Will mirrored him.
"If I step here," Jack stepped further, their blades crashed clang-clang-clang-clang, they stopped, their extended blades crossed, "very good."
Jack's gaze flicked over Will's shoulder to the front door. Will watched him with marble eyes. Mellie had stopped and watched also, her furry ears laid back.
"And now I step again." Jack danced around Will, and Will smoothly, delicately mirrored him. Jack halted; a pause swayed into existence, and they were exactly opposite their first positions. Jack was satisfied. He knew that in minutes, this boy would only be an unnerving memory with a sore ego. He smiled despite the painful knowledge that he was going to have to leave his dear hat behind.
The boy waited; Jack lunged suddenly, hitting violently–the lad parried and jumped back toward the furnace. Jack pulled back, still smiling. "Ta."
Will watched in puzzlement as the other sheathed his sword and darted away. The pirate's hands slapped the high step as he clambered onto it and stepped to the front door.
For an instant, Will was shocked, baffled, and disappointed; for an instant, Will just stared, utterly flummoxed. And then–coward!–a wave of rage changed every muscle in his body to liquid stone and before he knew what he was doing he had hurled his sword the length of the shop. It slammed into the door inches from Jack's head, above the latch that he'd begun to lift. There it stuck, wobbling and humming.
Bugger. Jack stared at it with huge eyes, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal. He then looked to Will, who didn't move.
Jack's eyes returned to the sword and he silenced it with one hand. With both hands he grasped the handle–it was made too well to have been crafted by a drunk–and yanked up on it.
It didn't budge; the entire door lurched instead. He paused to wonder why things like this always seemed to happen to him, then wrenched again.
Will's expression was one of great satisfaction as he watched the pirate jerk again, again, then jump wildly up and down in a great effort that probably loosened the door hinges, but did nothing else.
The world was indeed a cruel place. Jack Sparrow gave up. Leaning back, he fixed Will in a baleful gaze. "That is a wonderful trick." He stepped back down the ramp like a cat. "Except once again," he pointed, "you are between me an' my way out."
Will felt naked without a blade in his hand, but he edged back to position himself more thoroughly in the maggot's way - This any better?
Jack marched up to Will, drawing his sword. "And now, you have no weapon." He smiled grimly.
Will froze. Then he turned and grabbed a sword from the hearth. He brandished it at the pirate, whose grin faded as his eyes fell on the orange-hot blade. Someone else saw the burning metal as well: Mellie brayed and lurched forward, starting the gears grumbling again.
Buggerbuggerbuggerbugger!Jack darted around the nearest post in a wild attempt to slip past Will; it was futile: he almost impaled himself on Will's ready sword, barely deflecting–CLANG–barely catching himself. As sparks flew, Jack was careening back the way he had come. The unnaturally skilled youth whirled to again block him and they moved away from the shaft, fighting in earnest.
Will thrust fiercely. Hot with anger, Jack slipped aside and deflected with lightning speed, then swiped at Will's unprotected face; Will leaped back and Jack's strike bounced off the post, biting into the gray wood. Jack blurred forward to take advantage of Will's unbalance but the glowing blade flew up to parry his strike. Jack pressed in wildly, forcing Will's own glowing blade toward Will's face...Will heaved him off and Jack stumbled back into the gear shaft.
Will leaped forward, thrust, but the pirate recovered in the blink of an eye. He tangled Will's blade in the loose chain of his right manacle and deftly twisted. Shocked, Will did not have the thought to keep a hold on his blade and Jack sent it flying. As the sword clattered to the floor Jack struck at Will, who was already ducking away. Jack's sword smacked the post again; Will darted around the second, mule-less shaft, somersaulting smoothly over one of the spokes before coming to his feet under the rumbling gear.
Jack knew he had his opponent in a corner. Wall and mule pit would keep the youth at bay, unless he managed to slip out, and then dear me, it could become a ring 'round th' rosy. Jack charged straight to the rotating shaft, leaping onto a spoke. Hugging the shaft with one arm, he peered around and threw a strike at Will.
He wasn't expecting Will to parry, because Will was not supposed to have a sword. But Will did, and Jack finally noted the rack of swords that rested under his nose. The place was full of swords. "Who makes all these?" The shaft was rotating him closer to Will, who was kindly and idiotically remaining where he was...a simple leap…pin him to the wall like a bug–
Will struck savagely and lunged away. Jack bounced onto the dirt in pursuit, but barely had time to turn and block Will's blade. Jack almost growled as he found himself hemmed into the corner by Will, who had copied him: perched on a spoke, hugging the shaft, striking with free arm.
"I do!" Will snapped. Jack edged to the right, Will twisted around to force Jack back. "And I practice with them–" he flinched behind the shaft to avoid being brained by the sledgehammer Jack hurled and then popped out sword-first " –three hours a day!" Now he was being rotated toward Jack, who had very helpfully remained where he was; Will tensed, hoping–
Enraged that the youth would actually think he would be so stupid, Jack twisted, seized another sledgehammer, and hurled it at Will, who was just then lunging down in attack. Will avoided a braining for the second time, but Jack had time to escape. The pirate happily resumed his position on the shaft, leaning around to keep Will in the corner. Will quickly bounced over a spoke, and faced Jack. Clang-scree–
"You need to find yourself a girl, mate," Jack grinned, then struck at the young man, blade whistling. Will ducked, Jack's sword dully smacked the shaft, Will immediately straightened and–clang–he caught Jack's blade and gave it an extra shove to unbalance the pirate. Then he sliced at the grimy hand that clutched the shaft, but Jack threw himself backward and the shock of wood traveled up Will's arm.
Jack, having landed perfectly, was already turning to grab a third sledgehammer–they really were coming in handy–and Will, flying over a spoke as he hurtled out of the corner, grabbed a second sword.
Will's swords clashed with the pirate's single blade. Retreating from the gear and spokes, Jack kept Will at bay for the seconds it took to draw back the sledgehammer; Will grunted, ducked, and the sledgehammer soared over his head and clanged to the floor. By this time, Will had had about enough of Jack's dirty fighting; he surged back and threw himself at the pirate in a fury, blades whirling like scythes.
Jack repelled him with determination, tangling, pressing close, and forcing their blades up above their heads. "Or," Jack said, and Will paused. They strained against each other, panting, gazing at each other's sweat-sheened faces between loose sleeves.
"Perhaps the reason you practice three hours a day is that you already found one," Jack slyly gazed into the youth's narrowing eyes, "and are otherwise incapable of wooing said strumpet." He grimaced and looked Will over. "You're not a eunuch, are you?"
"I practice three hours a day so that when I meet a pirate," Will snapped, "I can kill him!"
"Ahh!" Jack's eyes went wide and goading; he disengaged. Will swiped ferociously, but Jack was already dancing out of reach, bouncing onto the cart ramp, leading Will on. Will leaped onto the low end of the cart and the impact broke the haphazard pile of wood that had kept the cart stationary. The cart lurched, and Jack's end slipped off the step where it had been braced. Now on a makeshift teeter-totter, the two antagonists fought to keep their respective balances.
This was not what he had planned, but perhaps he'd have better luck–Jack leaned forward and struck at Will, who barely parried, bringing both his swords to bear. Will stabbed back at the pirate, who, wobbling, knocked the attempt aside. They proceeded to fight with desperate abandon, staggering as they struck, parried, stabbed and dodged.
Will stabbed at the teetering pirate's wrist. The tip of his blade brushed the chain of the pirate's manacle; Will twirled it, trapping the chain around the sword. He then shoved the sword straight up into a rafter. The tangled chain of the pirate's manacle slid down and caught the handle of Will's sword, hopelessly tight.
Captain Jack Sparrow's left hand was now out of commission.
Jack was shocked at first, but he got over it after a few unavailing yanks. He used his spurt of rage to power a slash at the youth's face.
Will barely escaped a terrible scar; he'd expected the pirate to give up. Indignant, he straightened to keep his balance, then flinched as the pirate's sword whistled past again. Jack stomped on one of the cart's wide planks and got lucky; the plank flipped right up and smacked Will in the face. Will slammed on his back on the floor.
After some seconds, he lifted his head and shook his vision clear. He had to admire the pirate's abdominal strength: pirate had curled himself upside down. Placing his feet on the rafter on either side of Will's stuck sword, he was now pushing with his legs. And he still was managing to keep a hold on his own sword!
Will stood up, nobly ignoring his swelling nose as he held his sword ready. He paused for an amused second then leaped back onto the cart.
Jack heard Will, and push-pulled again with all his might. That got him a jerk and a squeak. His eyes went big as the rafter groaned, and then he was falling free. Down he whammed, back-first onto his end of the cart. The other end flew up and so did stunned Will, straight into the rafters. Jack somersaulted off the cart and fetched up against the base of the high step. He regained his bearings, pulled himself up, and then stepped cautiously back onto the cart.
He gazed about him, and then his dark eyes slid up. He grinned.
A sunlit Will, perched on a rafter, grinned back and slashed a taut rope with his sword. Jack's glee abandoned him as two large and netted barrels plummeted to the opposite end of the cart in a rush of ropes. There was a terrific thud, and then he, too, was flying.
Arms blindly extended, he managed to catch himself painfully on a rafter. Huffing, the fabric against his forehead damp, he looked about. Two wide beams a yard apart were placed down the space before him and Will stood on the left one, waiting like a vengeful spirit.
Buggery little inexperienced whelp! Rapidly Jack pulled himself up and vaulted easily onto the beam without Will on it. Will leaped right, across to face Jack, but Jack hopped to the beam Will had just vacated. Again Will jumped and the pirate again evaded him, jumping to the right.
Disgusted, Will feinted toward Jack's beam, and Jack promptly leaped across...to face Will, who straightened, pleased to have finally maneuvered the pirate, instead of the other way around. But Jack's insane grin caused him to doubt. When the pirate's face became too surprised and fearful at seeing Will, Will was blinded again with rage. He leaped forward and the intensity of the fight escalated to its highest level yet.
Jack barely had time to be amused, but he was now aware of Will's power and Will found himself being pressed back. Swiftly, he pulled away and jumped to the other beam, whacking at the pirate as he did. Grimly, Jack checked his inertia, instinctively deflected the blow, and popped onto Will's beam, bracing himself as Will twirled about and carefully charged.
Again, they faced off, and for a nerve breaking time they were evenly matched, but Will gained an instant of advantage and knocked the pirate's blade away. It clanged to the floor below, and now Will was grinning, sword pointed. Dismayed, Jack turned and bent to grasp his end of the beam, beginning to swing down in a desperate bid for escape.
Not again–Will was already moving. Easily as an acrobat, he threw himself into the open space headfirst, caught and swung off a rafter with his legs and somersaulted to land on his feet...between Jack and the front door, just as the pirate's boots landed on the counter beside the hearth.
They stared at each other. Jack turned, reaching–
No! Will rushed forward and–
–was too slow. Jack turned the nozzle of a limp bag on Will, and the moving bellows enshrouded him in a suffocating, stinging cloud of sand and dirt.
Blinded, Will reeled, his hands up to shield his face. Jack kicked the sword from his hand then dropped the bag and leaped to the floor. Will heard the pirate's boots slap the dirt; he stumbled against the counter and frantically wiped his eyes. He forced them open, at the same time grabbing from the counter a pair of heavy tongs. Unsteady, he held the tongs up, then froze. His brown face fell when saw the pistol Jack aimed for his head. "You cheated."
Jack raised his eyebrows impatiently. "Pirate."
A sudden shouting sounded from the jammed front door. Jack glanced over his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of red uniforms between the loose planks of the wall. Will scrambled to place himself between the pirate and the back door. Jack followed, pointed pistol steady.
"Move away," ordered Jack.
"No." Will glanced at the front door. It still held fast against the soldier's pounding.
"Please move!"
"No! I cannot just step away and let you escape."
Of all the citizens of Port Royal he had to encounter, this fanatically patriotic and agile boy had to be the one. And they would meet in a barn full of swords, probably the only one in the whole bloody island! Jack clenched his teeth. "This shot," he cocked the pistol, "is not meant for you."
Will had been staring at the pistol muzzle; he now looked at the pirate's face, startled at the unsteadiness of Jack's voice.
Glass shattered and sprayed out around the pirate's head. Staring, gun extended, he toppled forward without a sound. His fall revealed filthy Mr. Brown, who had decided to wake up after sleeping through the entire racket. He held up the broken neck of his bottle, giving Will a groggy smile.
Will found he had nothing to say.
The Marines, yelling, finally broke through the door. They flooded the shop, rushing past poor Mellie, who stopped to watch them. In seconds, many bayonets threatened Jack Sparrow, who looked extremely nonthreatening face down on the floor.
Then the Marines' commanding officer, pistol at the ready, strode up into the circle. Jostled on either side by Marines, Will looked up. Of course, it's Norrington. His eyes flicked to the scabbard at the officer's hip. And my sword. Right.
Norrington looked down his nose at Jack before turning to the potato of a man who stood stinking beside him. "Excellent work, Mr. Brown. You've assisted in the capture of a dangerous fugitive."
"Just doing my civic duty, sir." Voice thick, Mr. Brown gazed up at the Commodore with heavily lidded eyes.
Will's brows lifted and he looked away, feeling–not for the first time that day–the profound unfairness of the world.
"Well." The Commodore's voice was haughtily smug. "I trust that you will all remember this as the day that Captain Jack Sparrow almost escaped. Take him away."
The boy had fought with impressive skill, yes, but just a touch of it.
Really well, the boy had fought, better than he should have been able to. Did all young apprentices fight like that now? What a wearisome prospect.
Deep in Fort Charles, Captain Jack Sparrow slouched in his cell and nursed his sore ego, tri-cornered hat pulled down over his eyes. The night air flowing down over him and some flickering candles from a high, barred window was thick with moisture.
A slender, enticing whistle pierced the gloom of the prison. "Smell it, boy," rasped a man's voice; someone snapped his fingers, "smell it, love."
"Come'ere, boy," said a much raspier voice, a desperate voice.
"Want a nice, juicy bone?"
"Come'ere, boy!" said the desperate voice. "Come'ere, boy!" More whistling, more snapping fingers.
Jack stirred. "You can keep doing that forever; the dog is never going to move."
A man holding a bone through the bars of his cell turned and looked at Jack. "Oh," he sneered, "excuse us if we haven't resigned ourselves to the gallows just yet!"
Jack glanced past the four other men who huddled with Bone Man at the front of the cell, and saw the scruffy mutt who sat out of their reach, a twinkle in its eyes and a key ring in mouth.
It was just too preposterously, amusingly pitiable. With a grin, Jack turned away and closed his eyes.
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