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Wi' A Wannion	By : GeorgieFain Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > General Views: 2357 -:- 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
- 16
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Updates won�t occur as often as I would like, from here on. I�m doing without an internet connection at home and must make a trip to my office at university---a place I�m not usually at, this time of summer, in order to post. Every other day, I think, will be the extent of it. Am looking forward to reviews�

this chapter contains a section of a story by another author who has given me permission to use it---I'm going to use it well, adding narrative and description. when thinking of mutiny on the Black Pearl, this beautifully-constructed scene plays in my head as it might if put on the movie screen. I couldn't imagine a better way for the famous mutiny to happen. thank you again, miss!

Chapter Fourteen:

Resurrection

Year Twenty-Nine

It had been ten years, now, since his poxy crew mutinied under Barbossa's watch. He'd searched the world over for a ship fast enough to take the Black Pearl. At last, he'd found the one---if only he could get to Port Royal. For that, he'd need a boat. Or a ship.

Tia Dalma, each time he visited her over the last seven years in the swampy mangrove forest of the bayou along Pantano River, told him to be ready and patient...that soon, there would be a ship fast enough, a crew brave enough. Her warnings had never made very much sense, given the mystic's taste for belladonna berries, but he'd accepted her odd wisdom.

He was growing over-weary of waiting.

He wanted his ship and he most certainly wanted Barbossa to pay for the loss.

He'd just come back from Pantano River, again, having paid the witch a fresh visit. He couldn't endure her company for more than a few days, each time he made the journey. She was fun, he'd give her that, but the taste of magic still stung his tongue. This time, he'd indulged in her mad habit of eating belladonna. Now, almost a week later, he still saw sparks behind his lids when he closed them for rest.

He'd seen the boat he wanted, tied up at the docks. Asking around, he'd discovered that it was the property of a dear, old friend of his. He had given it consideration, the idea of simple theft. He could take the boat and she'd never be the wiser as to the identity of its thief, but the past they'd shared demanded that he try to gain Anamaria's cooperation in a slightly more honest way. Surely, once she knew what he needed it for, she'd be willing to join him. So, now, he was seeking the Creole pirate. Word was, she was to be found this evening in The Faithful Bride.

His step was light and quick as he moved along the busy streets of Tortuga, dodging minor battles and general lawlessness at its best. He'd woken this afternoon with a massive headache in the sullied bed of Scarlett, a wench he'd enjoyed several times over the last three years. After dressing himself and washing up in a bucket of stagnant water that smelled and tasted of ale and fire and goats, he'd reapplied a fresh coat of kohl to his eyes and gone out to discover the whereabouts of one Anamaria, Captain and pirate, once his cabin boy and impromptu Confessor.

In the last ten years, he'd come down a far distance from the clean, pin-neat Captain Sparrow who'd sold his soul to Davy Jones for the privilege of commanding the fastest ship in the Caribbean. Over time, Tia Dalma had twisted his braids into dread-locks like those on her own head...and experience had given him an edge of advantage. He knew when to play the fool and when to simply cut a man from stern to stem and go on his merry way.

He still preferred to talk his way out of confrontation, but only because he was gifted at verbal subterfuge---it was much more fun to watch his opponents get lost in the quagmire of their own ignorance as he made out like, well...a pirate. In effect, he'd become a true pirate, having buried all nobler morals at last. He was now the wily and selfish devil that Hector had once called him out for not being. It had taken bitter experience to finally reach the point where he could lay claim to that reputation.

He carried the flintlock in his belt, constantly prepared for Barbossa's retribution.

Named as Henry Morgan's heir when he was only twenty-eight years in age, he'd failed as of yet to be worthy of his erstwhile title. Having gone to work in the Caribbean circles when only twenty-six, with Hector Barbossa as his captain, he'd risen through the ranks and earned the elderly Morgan's respect. It was only upon selling his soul to Davy Jones and regaining his captaincy of a ship that he was considered worthy of the honor Morgan had wanted to bestow upon him.

His first act, upon being given his ship back, was to go straight away to Kingston for a chat with the aging hero of piracy. He'd earned the right to be called Captain Sparrow a second time---and, with a decisively wicked plan involving the insidious and brazen commandeering of a British Navy ship under full sail, had convinced Morgan of his worth as a Pirate Lord. The mantle had been handed to him with grudging admiration by the legend Himself.

But, as the Pirate Lord of the Caribbean, he had done poorly since being given that title---he'd suffered a mutiny and the loss of his ship, and been forced to take the work of a deck hand more than what was right for a Captain.

Soon, he would take his ship back and reign without contestation.

For the last year, since leaving the Cathay Rose in the hands of Sao Feng in Singapore as payment for a debt he owed, he'd worked the Spanish Main as nothing more than a second-rate thief and skiff captain.

That was going to change. Tia Dalma had told him it was time.

The strength of their association was based upon the impression cast upon the witch the first time he'd rowed up the Pantano River with Hector, looking for Anamaria---who'd gone missing and was presumed to have been taken by force. That concern had turned out to not be the case. Having located Tia Dalma---and Anamaria, who was visiting with the Arawaks of the swamp there---he'd fallen under the spell of an offering from the wild-eyed witch.

Tia Dalma had cast the bones in front of him and declared that he was destined for greatness...and she'd told him that she could give him the key to his heart's desires, if he would but bring her the tongue of a mermaid.

Well, which self-serving pirate wouldn't go seeking a mermaid's tongue in exchange for a compass what would point him in the direction of his heart's desires? Mermaids being deadly creatures in their own right---Davy Jones' handmaidens from Hell, really---the job had posed difficulties, but nothing he couldn't handle.

Looking back, now, as he navigated the muddy and rabidly seething streets of Tortuga, he pondered on that. If he'd listened to Hector Barbossa, he wouldn't have attempted the venture. Ah, well, time and tide. He'd learned the right of it in the end, hadn't he? Barbossa had betrayed him at the last and the compass now only pointed to the location of The Black Pearl. He had yet to decide what it meant; did he want his ship back more than he wanted vengeance?

The Faithful Bride was ahead; in a few moments, perhaps, he would be reunited with the dark-eyed Creole lass what had helped him so often in his hours of need---when he'd bothered to track her down. She hadn't been sailing with him, on The Black Pearl, at the time of the mutiny---she had told him that the Arawaks believed the treasure he was seeking was cursed and she'd refused to sign Articles. Since then, she'd worked for herself and done well enough the last decade. He knew the right of it; if she'd been on The Black Pearl, things might've gone a bit differently when it came to mutiny. Maybe. Perhaps.

He paused at the mouth of a service alley and saw Gibbs, his old mate. The pirate was leaning against the wooden wall of a tavern, looking sorely used and too drunk to be of any good to his cause. Jack pulled a face and continued on. He had a woman to find. And not just any lass...a strong, wicked creature who knew her true worth. He'd readied himself for the wooing of a woman who knew just how seductive he might be, when he was determined to have his way.

It was not a game for the weak-hearted or soft-minded.

Jack mused as he pushed his way into the Faithful Bride that it was perhaps to his advantage that he was neither weak-hearted or soft-minded but merely mad. Anamaria was aware of this, naturally, having seen him at both his best and his worst; this particular woman would take particular wooing.

The tavern was loud and welcoming; wenches went from table to table, following the flow of shine. The bottles and tin mugs clinked. Everywhere, pirates sang and gambled and drank, some smoking tobacco and others smoking the dried leaves of the hemp plant that was grown inland, in the hills. A group of men played music near the bottom of the stairs that led up to the inn's balcony and landing. A concertina, a fiddle, a large iron pot turned up on its mouth and beat on with a fid and a belaying pin. Someone shouted out a greeting to him from the balcony and he waved in response, pleased to be recognized as he sailed through the lamp-lit hall, listing from port to starboard with each step.

Ahead, he saw his prey. The disturbingly recalcitrant Anamaria, who knew almost all his tricks and subterfuges. All he could hope was that he'd learned a thing or two in the last few years that she'd not served witness to as of yet.

The tall, lean-bodied Creole woman was playing at Liar's Dice. Deception. Jack grinned to himself as he snagged a bottle of rum from the hand of a drunken sailor who was bumping past him with the alarming stagger of one almost unconscious. He murmured. "You won't be needing that much longer, mate...I warrant you'll be in the mud asleep before you know you've arrived."

Now, with a bottle, he was ready. Jack Sparrow, Pirate Lord of the Caribbean and rightful Captain of the Black Pearl, sailed into his chosen port and took a seat with swirling aplomb and a click of the beads in his hair before anyone noticed. At the table, there were two ugly pirates who seemed to be suffering from the combined effects of scurvy and scrofula...and the woman he'd come to convince.

"'Ello, love. Imagine finding you in such company. Your luck's come down a bit, eh?"

When Anamaria did see him, her dark eyes widened and her brows lifted. Her accented voice was quickly suspicious. "Jack Sparrow. Looking for work again?"

He winced internally at that. But quickly decided to play the angle. With a sigh, he took a drink of the rum---it was watered down---and thumped his ring-bejeweled hand on the rickety table's scarred surface. "If I find the right captain to sail with, I am. That kind seems to be in short supply in these waters anymore---there's no one left what will go after the big trade. These days, it's all danger and no shine. Savvy?" He offered her a lopsided smirk, showing gold teeth.

Anamaria opened her mouth, obviously intending to say something pithy.

She didn't get the chance. One of the pirates at the table leaned in close and breathed fumes at him; he nearly gagged. "Aye, so ye be the great Jack Sparrow?"

"Captain...Captain Jack Sparrow, mate." His smirk went chilly and cruel, like a sudden northeastern storm. "You'll have heard of me, then."

"I heard ye was killed." The other one commented, rolling dice around in his grog-cup.

"Was I?" He mused, tipping his bottle at the two pirates. "Nonetheless, gentlemen, rumors of my demise have been sorely exaggerated."

Neither of them seemed to understand. Jack sighed and rolled his eyes, dramatically. He was still surrounding himself with idiots what didn't or couldn't read. He continued, pulling out his own wee grog cup and dice---he'd come prepared for a night in the Faithful Bride. Setting them on the table, he took out the only thing he had worth betting with. His compass. "So, the newcomer challenges? My compass against...a boat seaworthy enough to get off Tortuga all the way to Port Royal. What say you gents?"

"I've heard about that---" One of the ugly blighters nodded at his black compass, where he held it on his thigh. "Compass as what doesn't point north. What good's a broken compass, ye mad li'l git?"

But, he wasn't watching the other pirates. He kept his eyes on Anamaria and she on him. He saw the speculative smile that began to rise on her creamy brown face. She reached up and tugged at the front of the brown scarf that covered her long brown-black hair. He was pleased to see that she'd started wearing kohl, as well---perhaps just since they'd seen each other last. Taken his suggestion, she had. Maybe.

Anamaria, he knew, was thinking it over. There was much shine to be had by the savvy pirate what knew where to go, within a four-day. A small boat could make the journey, in clear weather, with no worries. But, to find the good swag, one needed a map. In lieu of a map, one could use his compass. She knew what the compass was worth...and she knew that it was worth a thousand ships. She'd been with him, when he had gotten this unique trinket from Tia Dalma. She'd been with him and Hector, when they'd hunted down the mermaid and killed it.

The woman, even dressed in men's clothes and behaving as a man, was devious and willing. Just as he'd taught her to be. Just as he wanted her to be. She might go by her own name now, back in the Caribbean, but she was still the cocky little pirate she'd proven herself to be when using the name of Andre. She would know he had his own game running here, but might think she could out-think him just by virtue of having sailed under his command for so many years.

If Anamaria could be gulled, then he'd know he was ready for Hector.

The stakes were accepted; his compass against her boat. The other two pirates got up and wandered off to find other sport; neither had a stake worthy of this game.

Jack took a drink of rum, set the bottle down, and shook his cup of dice. He kept his gaze on Anamaria as she did the same. They were two old friends, mentor and student, and he wondered if she was still as strong a liar as she'd been, before. He'd taught her the game and she'd advanced to the point of being able to best him. The only two people who'd ever won a game from him were both female, both having served as his cabin boy---and it only made him more sure of the sharp minds that certain lasses possessed. Women were to be wary of, aye.

Slamming his cup, he pressed his tongue at the inside of his cheek. "Two threes."

"Three fours." Anamaria narrowed her almond-shaped dark eyes at him, speculating.

Neither of them had looked at their dice as of yet.

He wasn't about to start a trend. Now slowly running his tongue over the curve of his lower lip, he made the dare into an offer of much more. It had, after all, been many months since he'd bedded a girl. Or a boy, for that matter. It wasn't very hard to pull his libido up from the depths. A distraction was still a distraction. "Four fives, love..."

Anamaria blinked and he saw the moment of her indecision. She was the first to break the habit and look under the cup she held her fingers over. After a moment, she smirked, looking up at him from under the line of her finely arched brows. "Five ones."

Ah, so that was it, eh? He didn't dare take her hint. She was a grand liar.

He still didn't look under his cup. Instead, he lifted his bottle and took a drink and then used the same hand to rub the lines of his mustache into a smooth curl as he slowly let his eyes roam away from the table. As if bored. "Seven threes."

The flicker of doubt rose in Anamaria's eyes. She was on the verge of calling his bluff. But, she didn't hesitate a moment longer on playing. "Seven sixes."

Now, Jack lazily lifted his cup and glanced under it. He schooled his expression to deliberate blankness, so that the other pirate would know that it was deliberate. Now, he shrugged. "Eight ones."

"You're a bloody liar, Jack Sparrow." It was a hiss, her dark eyes narrowed down to mere slits as she stared at him.

"Shall we see?" He lifted his cup and showed his five dice. Four ones. one six.

Anamaria followed suit and revealed...three ones, a six and a four.

He'd lost, but not by much. Not the first time, playing against Anamaria.

Anamaria reached for and retrieved the compass. She seemed jubilant in her victory. "Are you still looking for work, Jack?"

"Aye." He didn't let his loss faze him. Time for the second plan. "I'll be needing work."

"You can sail with me. I'm headed for Kingston in four days, if you can wait that long." She picked up her own bottle and tipped it to him, smiling in that white-toothed smug manner of hers. "With this compass, we can go looking for something bigger...just as you want. Eighty-twenty split."

Generous, was she?

Well, he could do better using less to work with.

Three hours later, he was listing again on his feet, but he was far more sober than she. As he let her drag him along to her rooms, he played the gentleman and demurred, saying that he could never take advantage of a woman he genuinely thought worthy of his admiration.

It only further inflamed Anamaria's determination to get him into her bed.

Just what he needed and wanted, really.

In the dawn's first light, he woke before her. His head hurt, but it cleared with quick ease when he realized that the game was now in his favor. Silently, being careful, he rose and got dressed. He stood in the door and watched Anamaria sleep, naked and sated on her belly in the bed they'd rumpled. Her long dark hair was flowing free and he wished, for a long moment as he watched, that he could find it in himself to stay. But, his heart wasn't in Tortuga or with Anamaria.

His heart was out on the open sea, sailing under tattered black sails.

Compass back in his pocket where it belonged, Jack went out in the early morning sun and swaggered down to the docks. Casting the lines off from the wooden stakes sunk in the sand and mud there, he began to row the worn little boat out into the harbor. He had a fast ship waiting for his greedy pirate hands, in Port Royal...three days sail from Tortuga.

It was time to catch up with Hector...

And the beloved ship that had cost him both his soul and his lover.

***

Year Nineteen

Mutiny.

Jack heard the mob gathering outside his cabin door. He knew that hesitation now would mean death, so he drew his flintlock, cocked it, and kicked the door open---completely ready to put this mutiny down by shooting whomever stood nearest. A pirate captain what couldn't hold his own didn't deserve his ship.

But, at the head of the pack was none other than Hector; his first mate's long blonde-brown hair was caught up under that faded and bedamned green calico scarf. Jack was so shocked he just let his pistol fall from his hand. It clattered to the deck.

"Arrrrr!" The crowd roared. He could see Bootstrap among them, but the naturally solemn man was not shouting for his blood...simply among the mutineers.

Unarmed. This was it, the end.

Frozen though his mind might be, Jack's instinct for self-preservation took over and he stumbled backwards into the cabin, away from the mutineers. They'd been mumbling and grumbling since leaving port in Tortuga---it had been a bad idea, hiring the lot. But, greed had led him to hire a crew without careful consideration. Hector had warned him that this bunch of dogs were the wrong type of sailors---

Barbossa followed him in and kicked the door closed behind them. How often had this happened, in different times and with different results?---usually, his lover wore a wanton smile. This time, there was no lusty grin for him, only a scowl of disgust.

The pirates outside started to chant and cheer.

"Idiot! Yer through, Jack." Hector hissed, his freckled and weathered face reddened with anger. His lover grabbed a bottle from the table and hurled it against the wall. "I was right about them an' ye knew an' now, tis too late to end it. We're dead in th' water! Yer only chance was to shoot me---or th' one next to me---an' scare th' rest. You're naught but an idiot, a child! Ye still haven't learned anythin' about piratin', have ye? Soft, boy, always too soft---what with yer gentleman act an' no bite. These dogs don't respect ye. They want yer blood, Jack me lad---if I choose yer side, we're both dead men. I won't risk me own life for yers, not now."

"What do you want from me? Hector, please---" Naked desperation.

Barbossa stepped up very close, towering over him, and jammed something into his belt. "I want you to carry that pistol," he snarled, "til you have the stomach to use it!"

He strode over to the door and then turned back to face the young man whose life he had just ruined. There was silence as the two lovers facing off in a moment of choice for the ship they both loved. Hector raised a hand and drew an X over his heart, pulling aside the edges of his weather-worn shirt. Then, the older man opened his arms and froze there a moment, offering.

In his mind, he reeled at the thought of killing his lover this way. He couldn't even imagine wounding Barbossa. Jack could only remember too well how Hector looked when bloodied and dead. He could still remember what his lover had sounded like, upon coming back from death...from hell.

He stared in horror---was Hector serious? He tried, clenching his fingers in loose fists. "Hector, it's not---I can put half of them off the ship and you'll whip the other half into shape---we've done it before---"

When it became obvious that Jack was not drawing the gun, Barbossa's upper lip curled in frustrated disgust and he shook his head. "Yer weak, aye, an' I've let ye stay weak, but I never thought ye'd fail us so. Pirate Lord o' th' Caribbean, me arse. Carry that pistol, boy. Carry it til yer man enough. Until then, I have no use for ye, Jack Sparrow. Yer nothing."

He shoved the door open and called, in full hearing of the crew. "You're not even worth killing!"

The crew laughed with him, eating up his every word and gesture, and Jack knew right then that they actually were going to let him live. Oddly enough, he didn't find the thought comforting. His ship was lost to mutiny and his lover had just betrayed him. He meant nothing to Hector. He'd given his soul away to the Flying Dutchman's captain two years before.

Now, he had nothing left of his own.

What could he possibly want to live for?

***

Year Thirteen

In the monsoon season, the Pasig River flowed from Laguna de Bay to Manila Bay. As they rowed, they fought the tide's movement. The season was still early, but the estuary had already changed directions.

Jack Sparrow stood in the boat's prow, one foot planted on its edge as if prepared to leap forth and conquer all that stood in his way. He felt dead inside. He'd just spent the last five-day in a fugue; when not at the helm, riding out vicious storms that lashed at the ship and drove them forward to their destination, he'd sat in his darkened cabin and grieved in silence. A full five-day to reach their destination and he knew, it was as if the Devil Hisself had driven them forth, to have reached Manila so quickly in the rainy season.

He had not been able to rest, even when he slept, curled up on the floor. He couldn't eat. Rum had soured on his tongue. He'd sat by the bed where Hector's body lay, covered in sail-cloth, and grieved. Even while taking the cabin boy's suggestion, he had doubts as to whether anything could be done to bring Barbossa back from the dead. He had ached to sleep, to shoot himself, but instead of giving into those impulses, he'd pushed on numbly. For that was all he felt...a numb and terrible emptiness. There was nothing left to feel.

Behind him, in the longboat, six members of his crew rowed hard, pulling against the tide. Beyond them, at the stern, lay their precious cargo. Jack had forbidden any to open the sail-cloth and look upon the dead face of his lover---after a five-day, what lay undisclosed was best left that way. He knew, from his own personal experiences with death.

They were seeking the unnamed witch that Anamaria had told him of. He knew it was a long shot, to look for a man who would prefer to not be found by any, but he didn't intend to give up. So, with his eyes sharp to the river-banks, Jack kept his silence while five of his crew sang in rhythm with their hard pulling. Only Anamaria shared his quiet contemplation. In this, they were united.

It was more than a day's row before they found the bend. There was a house on the banks; it looked as if the river was ready to devour its fragile bamboo structure, but Jack ordered the men to reach it. There, with the boat tied, he stepped off onto the house's waterfront porch and called out his greeting in Filipino.

"Ahoy, the house!"

Within moments only, a small round head appeared at a window. Yellow-brown, with dark shaggy hair and dark, snapping-bright eyes. The voice that came was high, sharp, querulous. "Whitey not welcome. Go away."

His patience was thin, but Jack pulled out a small package from his deep coat pocket. With narrowed gaze, he hefted its cloth bundle in one stained and dirty hand. "I've a job for you, mate. Dead man as what shouldn't be dead."

"No job, Whitey. Go away." The head disappeared from sight.

Jack rolled his eyes in anger, biting down on the anger that began to bubble. He wasn't going to be averted just because some crazed witch hated Englishmen. He bounced the cloth bundle. "Look, mate, I want the man alive. Word is, you do that sort of thing. I bring an offering for you and your heathen gods. Very powerful magic, what I'm holding. You can do all sorts of nasty magics with a man's jewels, I hear."

The little round head reappeared. The eyes were narrowed on him tightly, as if daring him to lie. "You bring me a Whitey's manhood? You want magic done?"

"Yup, mate. That's the idea. You bring my friend back from the dead and I'll give you the jewels of a very powerful Whitey. Whitey who takes from your land and your water. Big magic here, I imagine."

"Show me manhood." The little man stretched forward out the window. He seemed to be wearing only a loincloth that wrapped at his hips and covered the necessary bits.

Jack shrugged and untied the knot he'd made. Folding back the bloodstained cloth, he exposed the dead meat. It lay pale, limp, and icy there, curled on his hand, exposed on its bed of burlap sacking. "See. The whole thing, eggs and sausage both. I took this from a Whitey in Singapore, mate...he was alive when I cut. Savvy?"

Bright black eyes popped open and then the voice broke into coughing laughter. "I see! Big magic in this, Whitey. Bring your dead man in. I will ask him if he wants to live."

Not questioning that, Jack motioned to the men in the longboat as he tied up the bundle again and put it back into his coat pocket. Two of them shifted around and brought Barbossa's body, in its shroud, to the prow. There, they heaved it out and, despite their care, it thumped on the wooden boards.

"Careful, you perfidious dogs!" He snarled, kicking at one of them. "That's Captain Barbossa----I won't countenance your abusing him, even if he's not with us at the moment."

Then, he motioned to Anamaria. "Get out, boy. You'll help me. The rest of you, stay here. Stay until I give the word."

Anamaria crawled out and, shivering at the wet damp, helped him lift Hector's limp body. Together, they carried his lover's corpse into the house. It was a strange place and smelled horrible to him, but no more horrible than the body they hauled. Herbs and dead-dried furry animals hung from the ceiling, swaying with the air currents, and within but a few seconds, they were face to face with the witch.

The man stood only as tall as Wee Tam, perhaps. He was wizened, but in possession of a sharply intelligent face. Jack made a decision to not ask for a name unless it was offered. Some people, in the islands, would consider it a mortal insult if their name was demanded. Something to do with the giving away of power, he understood.

"This way." The witch pointed. There was a second room off the first and it was here, to a pallet, that they stumbled with Hector. Gently, they laid his lover down. Jack turned and pulled out the bundle once more, handing it over.

He very carefully spoke, knowing he might offer a serious offense. "If you manage and he's not...right? I'll be expecting that back."

Anamaria took it a step further, leaning close to speak directly into the witch's ear with an impunity that shocked. "If you bring this dead man back and he's nothing but body with no soul, I'll be taking your stones."

The witch tilted his little head and studied the dark-eyed Creole girl what masqueraded as a lad. The two of them stared at each other and then the witch nodded, giving an enigmatic smile. "Yes-yes, girlie. I be doing what I can."

Ah, so the witch recognized Anamaria's disguise. That did bode well for magics.

Now, the witch addressed him. "You stay out until I say you come. Stay awake if you can. Dangerous magics. I will go try, try snatch your man back from land of death, Whitey. You go wait, there." A little finger was pointed at the first room, where they'd entered.

Together, he and Anamaria sat against the wall of the first room in the odd shack, passing a bottle of grog back and forth. They talked, watching the door that led to the other room, where their witch was working. They did this so that they wouldn't have to pay close attention to the noises and the chanting. Flashes of black-tinted light and eerie whispering sounds that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Outside, it began to rain; the sound was dryly staccato, tapping away at leaves and bamboo and the river itself. The monsoon would be here soon, within only days. If they were still within the area, they may not survive...their ship would sustain heavy damage.

Jack found himself not caring very much.

At one point, Anamaria's head tipped and fell over onto his shoulder; they'd grown quiet and watchful, aware of the rising power that seemed to vibrate from the air itself. Now, his cabin boy was dozing off. He pinched the girl's bare arm, jerking her awake again. Anamaria apologized in a thick voice, rubbing her eyes.

"I'm sorry, sir----"

"Shh." He nodded at the open doorway that led to the room where the magic was coming from. Together, they sat, shoulder to shoulder, with their knees drawn up, and just watched.

Then, the whispering faded and the flashes of light stopped and silence came...a profound, terrible silence. As if the world itself was holding its breath. As if they'd fallen into the depths of the sea. The little witch came back to the door, holding a long bone knife in one hand.

"You, come." The man pointed at him with the knife. "If you want him."

Jack got to his feet and crossed the floor, ducking several hanging items of questionable nature. He didn't look back. He didn't dare to see what Anamaria's face might show him. When he reached the room, he saw what lay before him.

The sail-cloth and Hector's clothes were bundled in a corner, crusted with dried blood and effluvia. But, there, laying freckled-white and still on the pallet was his lover's corpse. His mind took it in for a moment...it had been a total of six days now, almost seven now, since Hector had died. The heat and the time had not been kind. His mind took it in but then couldn't quite fathom what it saw. His eyes felt sore and hot and wrong. His tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth and he retched, ready to turn away, stricken all over again.

Some things, a man was not meant to see.

Some things, a man's mind should never be forced to accept or memorize. He knew, he'd carry this sight with him for the rest of his days---the sight of what death had wrought in Hector Barbossa.

The smell was enough to gag Jack and the witch caught his wrist, daring to touch him. "No go. If you go, he wanders darkness forever---your man not passed on to the land of death. He refuses to go and this mean I can bring him back no problems. But, you must see. You must do. He demands it. Your man demands you keep him."

Jack's mind tried to wrap around the idea of it.

His lover had refused to let go of life?

"What do you need from me...now?" He asked, whispering.

"You must bleed." The witch nodded, encouragingly, black eyes solemn. "Your man needs the blood of one who would die for him."

Jack nodded, accepting. He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing his left arm. "I would die for him a thousand times over."

The bone knife moved quickly, cutting four long slices into his forearm, from elbow down. The last cut nearly reached his wrist. The pattern seemed almost like forked lightening. He grew woozy as the blood flowed freely from his body and onto Hector's naked chest. Forcing himself to look, to stay focused, Jack watched as the red moved in an inexplicable way, soaking into the skin. His blood seeped into the wound that lay on Hector's ribs---where his lover had been shot by Cutler Beckett.

He felt dizzy, watching, knowing that something now forever tied him to Hector Barbossa. It was only a short time and he began to weave on his feet as the blood continued to flow, only slowly clotting at his skin. He was growing weaker.

At last, the witch pushed him back. "You good. This help. Show your man what he needs."

He stumbled back into the other room and fell down at Anamaria's side, clutching his arm. In the room he'd just left, the chanting started up again---louder and more insistant now. His cabin boy worked fast, binding his arm above the elbow to stop the bleeding. She then used black powder to flash-burn the wounds closed. All the while, she worked in dead silence, keeping her eyes on the cuts as she did.

When the powder ignited in a sharp flash of pain and light and noise, Jack screamed against his will. But, there---beyond the scream---

A whisper of breath. A heartbeat that caught, nearly stopped, and then picked up to thump in tandem with his own. Both loud enough to be heard. Both seemed to come from within his own heart.

He knew then.

Opening his eyes, he stared at Anamaria, who was cleaning the blackened, crispy blood off his arm. He husked. "He's alive...I can feel it. He just..."

He started to get up, still sick from the blood-loss, but the little man came out, dropping a blanket across the doorway. Bustling around, the mostly naked witch informed him. "No see right now. Spirit need time to settle. In morning, your man be fine. Leave then."

Many hours later, in the weak and watery morning light, Jack opened his eyes and found himself still sitting in his crouched position against the wall. It was raining outside. At his side, Anamaria was slouched, her head tucked in at his shoulder. The hard curve of her mouth was softened and he couldn't quite help a smile of his own at the sight of her revealed secret. She was still yet a woman, no matter the disguise.

Then, he remembered where he was and why.

Sitting up, he raised his head and rubbed at his eyes.

With his back against a short cask of some sort, Hector was sitting on the floor in front of him, still very much naked; he sat with both knees bent with his elbows loosely slung around them. His lover looked ragged and sickly and tired and still very much dead, only he was breathing now and the wound in his chest was healed. Nothing but a scar remained. The hollows under his eyes were deep. There was now a blackened silver necklace around his throat; upon it hung a pendant of paua shell.

Hector's pale gaze was studiously trained on him and the expression in their depths was haunted and unnatural. As if the other man could remember where he'd been and why.

Jack hissed in surprise, stiffening, and scrabbled at the dirt floor he sat on, pressing his back harder to the bamboo wall; the movement woke Anamaria, who yawned and then gave a squeaky yelp of her own. Then, he noticed that Hector held something loosely in one long-fingered hand. It was the bloodied bundle he'd given the witch.

His lover whispered, his voice hoarse and croaky. "Beckett's, I imagine."

Jack breathed easier; this was Hector Barbossa, the man he'd sailed with for most of his life. A man he held in high regard and affection. And it seemed that the other sailor was himself...not incomplete.

At his side, Anamaria stayed silent, watchful. He didn't blame her in the least.

He nodded. "I lost my head, mate. When he shot you."

Hector's head tilted to the side, gaze thoughtful and yet still haunted. His voice was broken. "D'ye love me, Jack? Is that why ye came for me?"

It was all he could do to nod again. He licked at his parched lips and it was his turn to nearly lose his voice as it cracked. "What was it like? Being dead?"

"I was lost." His lover's gaze darkened minutely. Hector looked away, his face tightening with some emotion he couldn't decipher. "That's somethin' I'd rather not talk about, aye?"
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Wi' A Wannion