FIVE: DAY OF MOURNING

Beckett, personally, would have hoped to see more people crying. It was only polite, after all. Sure, some of the women were mostly sniffing and dabbing at their eyes, but he saw no hysterics happening here. Oh well, at least the food was good—or looked good, in any case. He missed eating, strangely enough; he hadn't tasted anything in a while. Taste was important.

He looked around at the milling crowds. His body had never been found, so there was apparently no need to lower a coffin into the ground... he just got a stupid memorial plaque—the stinges! And it could at least have been gold-plated and encrusted with diamonds! Or rubies. They were nice.

Disappointed about his own funeral—which wasn't a very nice feeling—Beckett wondered what he could do to make it good around here. The only person who really looked like she needed cheering up was his mother... he supposed that it would be a good deed, to make her happier; but if her little heart gave out at seeing her son popping up at his own funeral very much alive, then he would be a murderer... which would not bode well with his current situation.

Eventually, everyone trouped into the church to be sad over tea and biccies, and Beckett noticed his mother being one of the last to enter, instead preferring to stare at the plaque for a moment. Beckett moved towards it to have a closer look—and then his mother turned around.

For a moment, Beckett was sure she had seen him—which was surprising, as he thought that he would only appear to those he wished to—but then she turned away again, somewhat warily, dabbing more tears away. Beckett breathed out, and then thought to himself, see me. Then he stepped towards the weeping woman, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"Mother?"

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Calypso swirled through the ocean.

She took on many forms, switched from one to another, and made sure everything was as it was. Which they were; she was here now. She owned the sea. Just like it had been—and just like it should always have been. How she detested those who had tried to take it away from her. The Pirate Lords. Davy. Cutler Beckett...

Did he really deserve a shot at paradise? Calypso mulled this over as she flitted through the water, darting, the shape of a barracuda. The barracuda suddenly flipped, and in it's place a shoal of millions of tiny, glittering fish; each one translucent, tiny enough to be insignificant, yet perfect in their own special way. Beckett in paradise? Beckett, unpunished for his sins? No...

He didn't deserve it. The tiny fish suddenly all became one, and took on a different form; one that was much, much bigger.

Time to tip the odds...

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Once he had managed to prise his mother off of himself, Beckett had the daunting task of explaining the entire thing to his mother. She seemed half shocked, half relieved, and half overwhelmed to see him. It wasn't a pretty combination. And it also left some overspill. (Three halves in one person...?)

"I thought you were dead," she whispered, grabbing his hand once more. He sighed—it had taken five minutes to make her let go last time.

"I am dead," he replied, "I'm just here for... a visit."

"A visit?" his mother looked at him, in his spectral form; she could see through him, literally. "But... what am I supposed to do? Didn't you have anything to say to me?" She wiped some tears from her eyes—they kept leaking out of their own accord, but she was strictly ignoring them. Her attention was needed elsewhere.

"Goodbye, I suppose," Beckett said, causing his mother to throw her arms around his neck again. He sighed. "What can I do to make it better?" he asked, as she buried her head in his ghostly shoulder.

"Make what better?" his mother asked, sniffing, "Your death?"

"I don't know—anything. What would make you happy?" Beckett asked, beginning the hopeless struggle to escape his mother's insanely strong grip once more. Gosh, did this lady work out, or what?

"If you'd stay," she said, and then blinked, "Are you even here? What if you don't exist?" she shook her head, "Am I going mad?"

"Oh, the last thing I need is my own mother doubting my existence," Beckett rolled his eyes, "Is my word enough proof that I'm here? Or perhaps I should get someone to sign on the fact, or swear it on a bible, a holy relic and the Mona Lisa? Make up a dance routine? That would probably work..."

"It's definitely you, Cutler," his mother sighed, finally easing her grip on him; he eagerly stepped away. Funny, that was the second time he'd heard that phrase used just recently. "What was death like?" she finally asked. Beckett appeared to think about this for a moment.

"It was quite boring, actually," he said, "It tasted strange... like chewing on a tin can." He shrugged at this point. "I expected more, to be honest."

"I see," his mother looked downwards, "Why did you never give the order to fire?" Beckett made a sound like a mouse being kicked, and then coughed it over. He looked at his mother, seriously, for a moment.

"It's rather daunting, knowing that you're going to die," he finally said, "And I didn't want to die desperately firing at two ships that were obviously going to overcome the Endeavour." His voice was somewhat sour—obviously, his own demise would be a little bit of a touchy subject for him.

"Sorry," his mother said quietly, and then looked at him, "Have you been there, then?"

"Been where?"

"Well. Heaven, I suppose," his mother shrugged one shoulder, looking downwards, "Not... the other place, I hope," her tone was attempting lightness, but she looked at him, as if she knew every little secret.

"Why would I go to hell?" Beckett asked, forcing incredulousness into his voice, "I've spent my entire life helping people."

There was a tug on his conscience. He noticed a few green sparklies drifting from the orb; but when his mother gave a comforted smile, they wandered back into the crystal orb, and even increased in numbers. Sometimes, you had to get your priorities straight.

"I'm glad to hear that," she smiled, "You will tell your father hello from me, wont you?" Beckett rolled his eyes; it was so typical of his mother. She had the chance to speak to her dead husband through her only son's reincarnated ghost... and all she could think to say was 'hello'! But Beckett nodded anyway, as another couple of sparklies joined his crystal, unnoticed by him.

"I will tell him," Beckett looked across at the church doors—a couple of people had come out, to see where the mourning mother could be. "Mother, is there anything I can do to make you happy?" he asked, quickly.

"Are you going now?" she asked. Beckett looked towards the few people outside the church doors.

"I am," he said, "You might want to be quiet. Those people will think you're mad. Only you can see me, after all." His mother looked at him, directly into his eyes; he hated it when she did that. It made it harder to lie to her.

"Cutler," she said, putting a hand on his arm, "Please... I know that you don't like... can you just let me hug you? One last time?"

Hmm... what was it with people and hugs? First, he'd had to hug that possibly flea-ridden peasant boy, and now his mother had gone crazy about wrapping him up like a pita bread! He realized that these were 'bad' thoughts, and sparklies were going to begin dropping from his orb any second, so he stepped forwards and wrapped his arms around his mother's frail back.

She hugged him back—rather tightly, he may add—and even gave him a big kiss on the cheek. Both cheeks. Beckett pulled the usual face of a son being assaulted by his mother, but allowed her to do so dutifully. There was a flurry of sparklies from his mother, her gratitude easily visible.

"I'll miss you," she said quietly. Beckett looked at her.

"I'll miss you too, mum," he replied, seeming surprised that he was saying those very words. Letting go of him, tears in her eyes, they looked at each other for another moment—and then he swooped away, up into the sky, swinging in a lazy loop as he faded from view. She closed her eyes as there was a crunch of feet on gravel behind her, a concerned friend putting a hand on her shoulder.

"Are you alright?" she asked her, worriedly.

"I'm fine," Beckett's mother smiled and turned to face her. She was fine. She'd said her final goodbye to her son—and that was more then most received.

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Jack Sparrow sat in a Tortugan bar, chatting to a couple of whores, grinning his easy grin, leaning back in his chair. The two were all nodding, eagerly listening to his tale, when their eyes moved behind him. Suddenly seeming somewhat nervous, they all scuttled off.

"Hey, where're you going?" Jack leaned forwards, looking after them, "I was just getting to the good p-,"

"Well, Jack," Giselle put her hands on her hips, and Jack swallowed and turned around. He could talk his way out of this one, right? Of course he could. "Enjoying the company around 'ere, are we?" Giselle had a loud and brash the voice, the sort that gets picked out in choirs with a general murmur of, 'What is she doing here?'

"Giselle, my sweet," he grinned broadly, "No hard feelings about the incident out on the docks, eh?" As she stepped forwards, he picked up some grimy charts from the next table and hid behind them, peeping his eyes over the top, as if shielding himself from her wrath.

"Did you really mean it?" Giselle asked, with a lip-wobble. Jack breathed out, and looked out at the midday sky through the murky windows.

"Of course I didn't, sweets," he said, opening his arms out, "I love you!"

"I meant about making me look fat," she replied haughtily, with a small frown. "You said that to Scarlett, remember?"

"Yes, but what I was sayin' was that I love you, and you do not, in fact, look fat at all... you took the words right out of me mouth!" Jack said, wagging a finger.

Beckett sat, invisible, on the seat next to him—and right now, he was rolling his eyes. The funeral had been annoying, though he'd managed to clear up a huge chunk of his list. He'd just generally skipped around the church unseen, tidying bits up and so on. And he'd looked down the list, and seen the next name...

Jack Sparrow. What joy.

"Ooh, Jack, you charmer," Giselle was saying, fluttering her eyelashes. Jack was grinning too—possibly in relief that he wasn't going to get smacked around that day. Or so he thought.

Beckett watched in some level of amusement as Scarlett entered their little miniature drama. Oh, what an exciting life he leads, Beckett thought tiredly, gazing at the slap-fest that occurred next. Eventually, Giselle and Scarlett turned to each other, slapping each other for some apparent 'betrayal'. Jack took the opportunity to stealthily stagger away through the bar, until he arrived at another table near the back.

Deciding that this was as good a time as any, Beckett thought... see me. Then, still sitting on the seat next to Jack, he materialized out of thin air, and sat with his hands on the table, calmly. Jack looked at him, into his drink, and then back at Beckett.

"What's in this?" Jack asked out loud, inspecting the bottle of rum on the table. "Maybe I should stop drinking rum I find on the floor..." Beckett wrinkled his nose.

"This isn't a dream, or some inane hallucination," Beckett said tiredly.

"Oh, yes it is," Jack said, wagging a finger, "You can't fool me. You're dead, mate. I saw you go down. On the EIC flag—you sunk without a trace." He looked to Beckett knowingly, "Don't play like I'm stupid, or something!"

"Oh, God," Beckett muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah," Jack nodded as if it were final, and then took a sip of rum. "So you can just bugger off now. The last thing I need is a subconscious Beckett in me 'ead." Beckett stood up, walked through the table, turned to Jack, and then did a very ungentlemanly thing. He curled his hand into a fist, brought it back and punched him full-on in the face.

He had been wanting to do that for years.

As Jack's chair overturned and his legs stuck up into the air—possibly more in surprise then the actual blow—Beckett noticed about five sparklies plopping out of the crystal ball and floating away. When Jack sat up, Beckett was busy trying to snatch green stars from the air, and Jack could only stare.

"Alright, I believe you're here," Jack said, rubbing his nose. "But you have some explainin' to do! Are you 'ere to haunt me?"

"The opposite," Beckett said, finally sighing in disappointment and giving up as he watched the sparklies dance out of reach, "I have to wrong the sins I have committed against you and regain my conscience. So, your wish," Beckett sat back down, looking faintly horror-struck, "Is my command."

Jack stared at him for a moment. Then, his face broke into a wide, wolfish grin.

"Great," he said, "Go get me some more rum, will you?"

NB: Tee hee. What fun this will be. Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter, everyone! I was so happy! It really made me smile. See you next chapter...!