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Whispers of Redemption	By : GeorgieFain Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > General Views: 2243 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 9
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- 11
Year Thirty-two

Estranged Bedfellows

It was several hours later, his watch finished at the helm, and he'd discovered that he was very much awake once more. T'was a curse and a blessing, the effect the sea had on his blood's tides. With a bottle of undiluted brandy taken from the rum locker, Jack stood at the forecastle and watched the horizon, enjoying the quiet. Gibbs was at the helm, now---they'd split the duty into fours, a new decision made as he had taken the quarterdeck for his turn at the wheel.

Uncorking the bottle, he took a drink and swayed with the rocking of his lady. All was right, she whispered. She was curious, though, to know what he would do with tomorrow. He needed to renegotiate Henriette's contract with Barbossa and that meant careful study on how best to do so. He couldn't go to the table unprepared for any twist of his old matelot's words or intentions.

'Let the lass make her own contract.' He thought to himself, giving a burp. 'She can sign on as a rigger, if she likes, and play the chirurgion when we have need of one. She'll prove herself in that respect right soon enough. Til we need a chirurgion...t'will be best if none of these cracked pots know of her skill with the knife and her wee herbs. They'll only associate it with witchery, what with her being Tia Dalma's pet and all. Nothing but cries of bad luck from every corner, her with that ugly beastie. Two lasses and a cat on the Pearl...what have we come to, Jacky?'

Glancing over the rail to the prow's galley, he winced at the realization that the blanket he'd stashed there was missing. Perhaps lost overboard but more likely to have been removed by one of the men. It was not particularly chilly, as it were, but he had been sincerely looking forward to some warmth for the night's sleep. Well, he'd just have to get another blanket.

Turning, he made straight for the cabin.

He expected to find Barbossa sleeping, anticipated stealing a blanket.

But, that was not the situation, he saw, when he opened the cabin's door.

Hector sat at the large round table in the darkness. He heard the monkey's chittering and internally flinched, but then stepped in and closed the door behind him, aware quickly of all the sounds---there was a low ring of metal that repeated itself several times, audible with the lack of voices. He remembered the noise. A coin being spun on its edge along the table's scarred top. There was a lack of light, but the shadows were not complete and he was able to see enough of Barbossa's form to know that his old matelot was sitting in naught but shirtsleeves and breeches. The wee capuchin sat on one shoulder, a shadowy hump.

He announced himself as he braced his determination and swaggered across the rug-covered deck. "I've come for a blanket, mate. Nothing more."

Barbossa didn't answer him, not even with a growled retort.

But, instead of going straight to the bed for the blanket he wanted, Jack sat down at the table and sloshed the brandy as he raised it to his mouth again. He was within reach of his matelot's fist or sword, but he wasn't going to let the ol' beastie get his backbone without a fight. With a swallow, he wiped at his beard and cleared his throat. His curiosity got the best of his nature. "So, what are you doing with this, son? You've nearly shaved off your beard and we call all see the color of your hair again, what with it being clean and cobbed. Is the world ending, Hector? All this change---could be taken as an affront to a man's nerves, it could."

The coin spun across the table and toppled in front of him with a clink.

The monkey hissed and gave a tiny chirr.

Putting the bottle down with a tipsy thump, Jack picked the coin up and knew, from the feel, that it was a piece of eight---off-center and not entirely round. He rubbed his thumb over it, testing its cool metal silk. Just the same as the one Barbossa had cut from him before releasing Calypso---before he'd been taken to the Flying Dutchman in exchange for Will Turner.

He started to spin it back at Hector, who had reached for and snagged the bottle of brandy.

"Keep it." It was so softly said that he nearly missed the words for being startled by the voice. Slosh---that would be the brandy being lifted. Hector gave a well-remembered sigh after swallowing. "T'wouldn't be right an' ye without yer piece."

He didn't bother to ask why Barbossa would give a damn whether he replaced his trinket or its purpose of signifying a pirate lord's oath. It was enough that he was made off-balance by the entire thing---the whole day's events, from Henriette to Barbossa's actions and concessions, to this. To ask for an explanation would be too much, aye?

Jack the monkey leaped down and raced away, into the darkness of the cabin, oddly silent. Now, he could see Hector in the shadows, the outline of his head and shoulders and even the planes of his long, weathered face.

Barbossa didn't need an excuse to explain; the brandy sloshed again and when Hector spoke this time, his tone was a little fiercer and more like the terrible evil he was reported to be. "I dreamed o' it, tonight, as ye stood to th' wheel. I dreamed o' yer death."

"You dream of death now? Didn't know that---you used to dream of pies and cherry bounce and roasted beeve and you would smack your lips something awful in your sleep---whatever happened to that, eh?" Jack arched a brow in disbelief, making a face at the thought. "But, again---found a right and fitting way to kill me, have you?

He knew that Barbossa's eyes were on him and he could tell, now, that the brandy was close to Hector's mouth---there came a chuckle, dark and ferocious and hollow, which sounded as if it came from the depths of the bottle. His old matelot hummed a bit at him and then whispered. "Nay, I don't intend to kill ye. I dreamed o' yer death, Jack Sparrow, th' memory comin' back just as real as this moment."

With the coin clenched in his palm, Jack decided it was a good thing they were sitting in the dark, sharing brandy, because he didn't really want to see Hector's face. It was enough to hear the strange, fierce tone of the other pirate's voice take on a note of despair which came too close to genuine emotion. Despair was among those emotions he would not want to see or hear from his old matelot---that was not for him to know, anymore.

"I must've heard th' shots, aye? There weren't so many that one or two could go unnoticed, especially at th' helm." Barbossa said it, his voice lilting as he fell into the telling of it. In the dark, the bottle was lifted, used, and then lowered. Its slosh was musical. "Wasn't til I knew th' ship was drifting in th' current an' th' wind, near to runnin' down a boat o' Brethren...wasn't til then that I knew ye weren't to th' wheel. Morgan offered me th' use o' his own chirurgion for ye, but ye died an' what good be a chirurgion then?"

Little good, he thought to himself. He shifted in the chair and made to rise, steadying himself. "I'm not sorry, you know, that you had a dream of it, but forgetting is the best cure, Hector---the past is dead, savvy?"

"Is it?" Barbossa climbed to his feet at the same time, stepping close to him. Now, in the shadows, he could see his old matelot's face---the eyes that searched his face with fierce intensity. "Is it dead, Jack me lad? Dead like us?"

The bottle was thrust to his shoulder and he caught it with his hand. Lifting his upper lip in a curling smirk, Jack hefted it for a long drink. The burning brandy warmed his gullet and belly. He let out his breath with a gasp as he lowered it again and leaned forward to daringly tap the other pirate in the chest. He declared himself. "I'm not dead and I don't owe you any blasted thing, Hector. You didn't come to rescue me from the Locker out of the goodness of your heart or because of any fancy you're entertaining about the ol' days. The ol' days are what's dead---you killed them. If you want to be dead, go somewhere else---I remember very well what you being dead smells like, mate."

But, Barbossa wasn't backing down; one large hand reached for and caught his wrist, tugging him close enough as what would let him feel the other pirate's breath on his cheek as the words were whispered directly into his ear. "D'ye remember what it takes, Jack, to bring a man 'round from th' dead? What did ye do, hmm, to give yer witch th' power to draw me back after Singapore?"

He didn't fight the grip, only stood motionless and closed his eyes. The brandy hung in his free hand; he could use it to smash his way loose. If he wanted. But, the words clawed furrows in his heart. There, pressed close enough for a kiss, Hector went on talking at him and he listened. "Ye used yer own blood, aye? T'is a fearsome an' terrible thin', bindin' a man wi' blood, Jack. I did th' same, wi' that Carib witch, when t'was ye. We were both bought an' paid for, Jack...an' thin's o' that nature, they can't be killed."

With his mouth thinned with conviction and his skin prickling with chill at the sound of his old matelot's voice so soft and honest, he whispered in return. "Aye, Hector, I bought and paid for your life with my blood. But, it didn't stop you from betraying me."

"For which ye killed me." Barbossa hoarsely reminded, mouth moving against his ear now.

Jack shook his head, willing to admit the truth. "No, mate, not for the betrayal. I've had a while to think on it---I didn't shoot you at Isla de Muerta for the betrayal, per se. You were forcing my hand by using the lass as leverage against me---if you remember, I've never been the man to kill with no need. If you hadn't tried to use her thata way, I believe I'd have let you live, once the curse was lifted."

"Blaggard." Barbossa hissed it in his earhole, breath tickling. It made his skin tingle. "Ye lie, Jack. But, that not be what's here between us, now...aye? D'ye not wonder at who bought me back from death, th' second time? D'ye not ponder on who brought me body from Isla de Muerta an' then spilled their blood for me life?"

He shrugged, casually lifting the bottle to his lips. Against its glass rim, he muttered. "Tia Dalma, I imagine. Don't matter, mate. Not to me. What lay between us is a long time dead. Savvy?"

He was not going to be the one that admitted being haunting by such things.

Hector's hand tightened on his wrist and the words that came now were little more than breath itself and froze the blood in his veins. "Your father, Jack. He left th' Indian Ocean, before ye were even taken by th' Kraken---he came an' he spilled his own blood for me, set a price for me resurrection. T'ween Captain Teague an' Tia Dalma, they demanded I redeem meself an' bring th' Brethren together for to release Calypso. I've done th' one, but..."

Jack had followed the words carefully and yet was slow to realize what it meant. When he did, he jerked free of Barbossa's warm, callused hand with a snarled huff of laughter. Half-nerve and half-disbelief. He stepped back, freeing himself of their close proximity. "Think I'll forgive you, Hector? Is that your game? So, my return from the Locker wasn't just for your Brethren Court and Elizabeth's sense of guilt---you want forgiveness, too?"

"Nay!" Barbossa growled it at him, shoving closer once more until they were nearly nose to nose in the darkness---he could not fail to see the fire in the other pirate's shadowy eyes, now, nor the smoldering anger. "Why would I want forgiveness from th' likes o' ye, Jack? There's no need for thinkin' I'll be wantin' yer blessin' for doin' what a pirate does---"

Jack narrowed his eyes and refused to back down or pull away now as he tipped his head enough to drink from the brandy he'd brought with him. He forced the question out, biting off each word. "What then, Captain? What is it you think you deserve from my hand, besides the tip of my sword? You did what a pirate does---you did right by yourself, aye? You did it and to hell with what was right by us. If not forgiveness, what?"

"An accord." Barbossa breathed, huskily in a way that made every tiny hair on his body rise in surprised reaction. "To th� right o� it, t'is yer ship, Jack, but we're both captains an' neither o' us willin' to play second fiddle---I'll ask naught o' ye but a ship o' me own. Ye gave our lass Anamaria that much, aye? Til we find a ship befittin' me, I'll sail as yer co-captain. When I've a ship o' me own, we'll split th' men an' go our separate ways---peaceable-like an' each wi' th' promise to ne'er wage battle on th' other."

Jack stepped backward once more, putting distance between their bodies; it wouldn't do for Barbossa to realize the reaction he was enduring at their closeness---the stiff cockstand he'd gotten from the feel of Hector's breath on his cheek and throat. Offering the bottle, he considered it as his old matelot drank from the brandy.

He frowned, rubbing a hand over his braided beard. "My terms, then? No more interfering with each other's orders until that eventuality. We reach the Fountain of Youth, take that together, and then go searching for a ship fit for your indisputable talents as a captain. And...when we split the crew, I take Henriette and Gibbs with me, no matter who else. Deal?"

Hector shook his bare head, in the dark. "The lass goes wi' me, Jack. She's part o' me promises to Tia Dalma, aye?"

He took the bottle back, snatching it to his own chest. "Shan't happen, Hector, and I'll tell you why. Lass won't sail with you if I'm not onboard as captain or first mate---she hates your weasely black guts, mate, with a load of paternal disdain the likes of which I can only envy. I could only wish to thumb my nose just so at ol' Captain Teague." Thoughtfully, he sipped at the bottle and then mused. "Though, if I did, he'd likely cut my thumb off and wear it as a bauble."

Hector snorted, taking the bottle right from his lips. "How d'ye know I won't be doin' th' same to Henriette, eh? Missy has a fierce need to be taught th' proper way o' it, when talkin' to her betters."

Before Barbossa could even lift the brandy, he'd taken it back. He scowled and held it back behind himself when Hector attempted to retrieve the bottle. "Leave off, ye evil codfish---and how do you know what she needs to be taught? She's my own pupil, and a very apt one, and I say she knows how to talk to her betters---you are not her better."

"Hmmph." His old matelot grunted, swinging away to move toward the table once more. In the darkness, Jack heard the monkey scampering along the deck toward its master. Barbossa moved past the table and to the bed. Movement told him that something was being pulled up from it. A blanket was tossed at his feet---he heard it, the heavy wool. "So, ye think missy'll choose yer mad arse over me, when th� moment comes? I say let her make th' choice then, but not before. Do we have an accord, Jack?"

"Aye." He agreed, gathering the blanket. Then, inspiration came along and landed on his shoulder. "As co-captain of the Black Pearl---as her true captain---I have the right to this cabin and I don't intend to sleep on the prow tonight. I've had enough of being generous in the spirit of keeping the peace. With an accord between us, it stands like this---if we're sharing the cabin and the quarterdeck, you have the choice of the floor and...the floor."

"Use th' piece o' eight I gave ye." Barbossa suggested and then, with a crack of a sulphurous match, a candle was lit and held forth over the table. "Eight-side, I take th' bed an' ye get th' deck tonight. Unity-side, ye take th' bed an' I get th' deck."

In the candle-light, he found himself staring at his old matelot, still hard in his breeches. Hector was cast in bronze and gold, within the gleam of an open flame. The old green calico scarf had been replaced, he saw, with one of black beaded silk that must have come from a woman's shawl or dress. The angles of Barbossa's face, as the other pirate gave him a real smile, caught the light and played hell on his mind. There, he could almost see the freckled and sharp, impassioned angles of a younger man...the man he'd loved.

Jack tugged the ragged edges of himself together and brought the bottle back around and up for a long pull. Then, tossing it to Hector---who nimbly caught it in his empty hand---he opened his other fingers and studied the coin he held. Proper coin, it was. Two sides, just as it should be. Nodding, he held it forth and flipped it off the end of his thumb.

The coin landed on the rug with a muffled ching and rolled right to Barbossa's boot.

The bedamned monkey jumped down from a chair, where it had been watching the proceedings with unholy interest, and scampered faster than he could. Falling to his knees, he tried to snatch the piece of eight from the beastie; Jack the monkey was having none of his tricks and gave a crazed chitter of disapproval and ducked, scampering now for the open mullioned windows.

"Damn!" He started for it, thinking to catch up with the creature before it escaped.

But, in the candlelight, he watched as Jack the monkey cast a nasty glance at him and climbed out the window and up the side of the ship, apparently heading for the rails. There, half-sprawled on the rug-covered deck, he sighed and rubbed at his tired eyes, smearing his kohl. He complained, glancing up at Hector. "Your damn pet---you take the floor."

But, Barbossa wasn't having none of that. Tipping the bottle up, his old matelot drained the last drinks from it. The bottle was thumped down on the table's top as Hector gave a low, rumbling burp of his own. There was no mercy or sympathy in his long, weathered face. "Yer coin, Jack, an' yer mistake. Ye've th' floor."

Climbing to his booted feet, Jack squared himself obstinately. "The hell I will. My bed, my cabin. Co-captain you might be, and entitled to what a captain gets, Hector, but I'm tired of keeping the peace by sleeping ondeck. Go get the damn coin back from your damn monkey."

Face to face, he looked up at his old matelot, and realized it wasn't going to work.

Hector raised a brow and asked, all saucy taunting. "Keep yer peace, aye? As co-captains, I believe we'll share duty an' benefits an' with each not antagonizin' th' other. We each take a turn at th' helm, we each get th' pleasure o' bein' called captain, we each get a captain's share o' all shine an' food---an' we share th' captain's cabin. Tonight, it mayhap also means we'll be sharin' th' captain's bed." Then, before he could get any words out of his mouth, startled and ready to disagree, the other pirate pushed forward until they were almost chest to chest again, the difference in their heights reinforced. Hector mocked him. "That is, unless, yer afraid?"

He rolled his eyes, defiant even as his heart pounded in worry. "I don't sleep in the same bed as a murdering bastard who might take it in his head to do the job again, savvy? Go find yourself another corner, Hector."

"Let's take care o' that fear o' yers, then." Barbossa stomped to the door and flung it open. The rogue shouted up to the quarterdeck. "Master Gibbs, send for Mistress Turner---she'll be expected in th' captain's cabin to settle a matter o' some grave urgency. Th' sooner th' better!"

Gibbs sent someone---sounded like Marty, from the quick, light footsteps---and Jack stood in the candlelight by the table, watching Barbossa with a stony, serious eye. As he did so, his old matelot ignored him and picked up the fallen blanket and then carefully re-made the wide bed as if it was a most precious tool or treasure. The ol' monster hummed as he worked and Jack felt himself growing---not impossible, only improbable, and in this moment, unbelievable!---harder in his breeches.

When Elizabeth finally reached the cabin, slipping in with a pistol in her belt and a look of stolidly possible viciousness on her pretty face, Barbossa explained without waiting for niceties. "Lass, we need ye to take our weapons to yer hidey-hole an' keep them there for th' remainder o' th' night. Ye can return them when Jack an' I both come to ye for them, together---d'ye agree to do this?"

Elizabeth, who had likely been sleeping herself in the little �Captain's Stash� hold, studied them both with stark disbelief in her brown eyes; all her suspicion disappearing fast From Barbossa to him, her eyes went back and forth in silence for a few moments and, then, she nodded.

"Hold on." He disagreed. "How do I know she won't give you a pistol to do me in as I sleep? For that matter, how do you know she won't do the same for me, to dispose of you? She's not an impartial party."

Now, it was Hector's turn to roll his eyes in aggravation. His old matelot was already picking up baldric and a brace of pistols from the floor, including the silver-chased flintlock that he'd often admired. These were all shoved in Elizabeth's waiting hands. "She's impartial enough. Give her yer arms, Jack."

He sighed and gave in, unbuckling.

Elizabeth took them, draping both baldrics over her shoulders. Silent until now, she spoke up. "Even your boots, gents---you're both carrying knives and pistols there, too."

She didn't seem the least bit curious as to why she was being asked to perform such a service.

Pulling his boots off, he gave up the last of his weapons. Barbossa did the same.

At last, they were wearing nothing but their sarks and breeches and scarves. At the door, as she was leaving, the newly married blonde woman shifted to look at them both with a strange expression in her eyes. She spoke, keeping her voice soft to prevent anyone from overhearing. "When you fetch these back, I'd like to hear the reason for why it was a necessity to hand over your arms to an impartial party. Let's just hope in the meantime that I don't take it in my head to have you both thrown in the brig for acting mad---the men, I dare say, wouldn't care to trust captains whose sanity can't be safegained."

Neither of them spoke to that, but only looked at each other---made note of their unarmed state---and then nodded to her. Once she was gone, Jack watched as Barbossa blew out the candle. In the absolute dark, he stood barefooted on the rug and contemplated getting into a bed with Hector. Perhaps he should just take the floor, after all. But, no, his pride was invested in the matter, now. If he gave in and took the floor, he would be admitting that he was afraid.

He was afeared, though.

The bed squeaked on its ropes and he knew, then, that Hector was laying down. The rustle of blankets confirmed it. But, as he silently breathed in the scents of his familiar cabin, Jack debated it with himself---how afeared could he be and still be considered prudent and wily? Had he already crossed the line, not making for the bed first?

But, Hector, it seemed, had beat him at the game. From the bed, it came, the heavy sigh that he remembered so well. Barbossa, settling in to lay on one side, facing away from the middle of the bed. And the voice that mumbled, half-lost in a yawn. "G'night, Jack."

He gave up and padded over to the bed, climbing in. "Goodnight, Hector."

There, he settled under the covers and made sure that there was at least two hands of space left between their bodies. Hector didn't move or make any more comments. He knew he must be mad, to accept this. But, there, in the dark, he lay flat on his back and studied the impenetrable shadows that lurked between him and the wooden beams overhead. All around them, his lady creaked with sighing yawns of her own and he let his eyes fall shut. He was on the edge of drifting off, at the place where all thoughts became one long and misty lack of thought, when Hector spoke again...in a whisper. It startled him back from his drowsing.

"If I wake to find ye suffocating me wi' a pillow, Jack Sparrow, be assured that Elizabeth will back me when I have ye dragged behind th� Pearl by yer heels for th� whole morning."

Jack exhaled through his nose, snuggling down against sleep once more; he couldn't help but give a little smile as he answered, just as sleepily. "Same goes for you, mate...only, it'll be Henriette and I'll have her nail your hands to the deck so as she'll be able to use the very cruelly be-clawed and evil Madame Sullivan as a whip to flay you. For the whole morning."

"Hmmph...arr." Barbossa murmured, still drowsy and unmoving at his side. "Is such a thin' what happened to th' wee monster's tail? T�is awfully broken."

"Oh, aye." Shifting, he turned to his side, so that their backs were presented to the middle of the bed. Still not touching. Burrowing his cheek into the pillow, he grinned sleepily. "I saw it. Lass tied Madame Sullivan to a short whip by the tail and used it on a man as what was stealing from the chirurgion supplies on me ship, the Cathay Rose---she's a right terror, when provoked."

"Chirurgion, is she? Or just chirurgion's mate?" It sounded as if Hector might be coming back toward fully awake. "I thought she was yer cabin boy, Jack."

"She was." Jack admitted, lifting a weary hand to brush back a dreadlock which tickled at his throat. "But, she worked as chirurgion, too, for me. Saved my life a time or two. Knows a thing or two about curing the pox. We had a proper chirurgion, taken from an East Indiaman, but he died---and left all his tools and medicines behind. Might want to consider asking her to sign on as chirurgion instead of rigger---or mayhap to do both."

Behind him, in the dark, Hector tugged a bit on the blankets and yawned. It was little more than a whisper, the agreement. "Aye...tomorrow, when we talk wi' th' lass about signing Articles."

***

Year Fourteen

Soul-Ransom

The stars were so bright above the fog as to seem like diamonds he could almost reach out for with his fingertips. But, the fog lay heavy all around him on the water. The oars were of no use, laying in the longboat itself and on the bench across from him was a shuttered lantern, which illuminated only the water directly around him.

There were bodies in the water, floating under the surface. He was only vaguely aware of them and found that the sight didn't bother his mind at all. The fog was not only on the water and in the air, but in his brainpan. Nothing seemed to matter very much.

He was loggy and sleepy.

He considered the last thing he could remember...the sight of Hector's face, blood-covered. The memory of his lover fighting naked on a Spanish ship, two swords swinging and flashing in the sun's morning light. He thought on it and realized what was wrong about this moment. He couldn't remember how he got here, to this longboat and this fog. He was cold and bloodied and wearing only his half-burned breeches and boots. His hat and scarf were gone, too. Looking at the blood on his hands, he wondered at it...the chill and the sensation of fog and how he was so certain, now, that he was dead.

It echoed in his head, the last things he'd said...the last things Hector had said.

'Shh, now, Jack...t'is fine. Ye cry like a wench, aye....ye did well, Jack me lad...Jack? Can ye hear me, Jack? Jack? Jack Sparrow---' It went around and round like a chanty in his mind. And then his voice. 'You're naked---did you know that?'

What was he meant to do, now? How was Hector doing? Had Hector survived? He was fairly certain his lover had---he had the sense of knowing that he'd seen Hector only after it was finished, the battle for the ship.

If he was dead, why was he at sea? If he was dead, what was supposed to happen now?

"Hello, boy." A harsh, female voice spoke. "You be ready for the otherworld yet?"

Jack looked up from his bloodied fingers to find that he was no longer alone. Seated on the bench, next to the lantern with its shuttered light, was a squat, toad-like woman. At least, he was fairly sure it was a woman. She was from the West Indies, dark-skinned and hawk-nosed with sharp black eyes and fierce tattoos and scars on her ugly face. Her black hair was pulled up in an elaborate series of braids that made a dark halo for her round head.

"What?" He asked, cocking his head to the side.

"You be ready for the otherworld yet? Make peace with your people? Make peace with your death?" The woman demanded in that same, flat tone. Her teeth were blackened and stained as if she'd been eating from the dead.

Jack shook his head at her, still not quite comprehending. "No, I don't believe I have. I'm worrying for it, I think. I don't want to be dead. It likely set my captain to a rage...if I know Barbossa, he's shooting someone for me about right now."

That seemed to amuse her. She grinned and shrugged inside the long black sack-like thing she wore. Her voice was like that of a crow. "You been dead for days, boy. Any killing your captain wanted to do for you, it's done. I like him, your captain. He's of the mighty dread, like storm and hot sun. He's generous, too."

That only confused him more. Twisting his face in torment at the sensation of being lost and alone and without Hector's voice---was eternity going to be hell, for him, because of missing his lover's voice?---Jack complained. "I don't understand. Did you say he's generous?"

The fat little Carib woman---that was what she was; he'd seen those type of scars and tattoos before---laughed and picked up one of the oars. She hefted it as if the heavy wood weighed nothing at all. Doing so, she bent and opened the lantern's shutters fully so as to illuminate straight into his eyes. Jack shaded them against the glare that cut through the fog.

"Not very helpful, little love." He protested again, squinting at her.

"You are bought and paid for, little man. You come back."

The Carib woman swung the oar.

The world exploded with the pain in his head.

When he opened his eyes again, the pain was gone and the light was muted.

He was laying on his back in a shack of some kind---it was more tent than building, he could see. Not that he could see very well. Jack felt instantly wary. Things were mad---and this was unhelpful, being tossed from one place to another without warning. But, after only a few moments of listening did he become aware that he was alive again. His heart was beating and it beat faster when the sound of his lover's voice rose and became part of the world.

"Jack. Glad to see ye, lad." Hector's face came into view, leaning over him once more. With an honest, pleased smile. Even if the words were decidedly not the welcoming, happy words of a relieved man. "But, I swear it now---by th' Devil hisself---if ye e'er die on me hands again, I'll have ye brought back just so as I can have th' pleasure o' shootin' ye meself."
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Whispers of Redemption