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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
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Year Thirty-one
In Davy Jones� Locker

'It's after you, not the ship...not us.� It's the only way.'�� Her long blonde hair curled and twisted
around her cheeks as she tipped her chin and he could see that she was ready to
break; there was a glimmer of tears in her brown eyes.�� But, it was easy to see how deep her steel
ran.�� 'I'm not sorry.'
Oh, he'd been right about her, all along.�� She was every bit his match for wile.�� God help Will Turner, then; the foolishly
headstrong whelp was marrying a true---
'Pirate.'�� He couldn't keep the pride
from his voice and didn't even try.�� It
was affirmation, initiation, and condemnation.��
In his life, he'd only ever known one other pirate capable of such a
heartbreakingly honest betrayal.�� His
admiration and fondness for this young woman had first drawn and then blinded
him to her innate dark streak.
Then, Elizabeth was gone.
He was alone on the ship and waiting for the
Kraken.
Struggling with the manacle---he never wanted to
see another manacle in his bloody life---Jack stumbled to his knees, fighting
to slip his hand free of the iron.��
There was no one here, this time, to cut it off or give him a key.�� He could feel the pitching yaw of the keel
under his knees.�� Was that the Kraken,
rising again?
'Aye, Jack me lad, this be th' end o' it all.'��
The voice made him freeze, suddenly
immobile.�� He didn't dare to glance up,
to look at the owner.�� What would he see, if he did?�� Would
it be the dead man, rotted meat and bleached bone, leering at him from its deathhead?�� Would it
be the mutineer who had stabbed him first in the back and, then, when fighting
him at Isla de Muerta, ran him through with a
rapier?� Would it be the dead man he'd
taken up the river in Manila, hoping against hope on a cure for the loss of the
first friend he'd ever known?�� Or would
it be the boy he'd fallen in love with on the Flaming Sword?�� He'd seen them all, talked with them
all...here.� Wherever
here was.
'I suppose tis th' best thing could happen, with th' likes o' us.'��
The voice said; a pair of boots came within view, familiar boots to go
with the familiar voice.�� The shadow
that fell over him was chilly.�� 'To be goin' down with me ship.��
Though...I must admit, I didn't think to see ye back here, Jack
Sparrow.�� Ye've
gone witless, to be so easily betrayed a second time."
It bubbled in his chest and burst forth, a mix
of exasperation and annoyance no longer held back as he rattled the chain that
held him to the mast.�� "It's my
ship.� Mine.�� I sold my soul for this ship, I sweated and
bled for her---what the bloody hell did you ever do, to earn it?!�� You mutinied on me, when I trusted you---and
why wouldn't I have trusted you, Barbossa?---you great beast of a---"�� Without thinking, he looked up with narrowed
eyes, aiming his vitriol.�� It caught in
his throat and droned out to a whine as he lost his breath in surprise.
His hand fell to the deck beside him, the chain
clinking for a moment longer and then falling silent with inaction.�� The Kraken was forgotten, as was Elizabeth
Swann and the Pearl and Davy Jones and all other worldly matters.
Standing just outside his reach was...well,
there weren't any boots.
There weren't any clothes, either.
Tall and lean and bronzed with smatters of
freckles everywhere to be seen on his naked body, Hector Barbossa
stood just outside his reach.�� Once more a young man perhaps in his early twenties.�� Ginger-brown hair streaked with reds and
blonde float-rippled back from smooth brow and cleanly shaven angular face
despite the lack of wind.�� Strong
shoulders and arms and long, tight thighs and the thin patch of brown-blonde
curly hair that ran from navel downward to become a regular thicket at the
erect, reddened prick that bobbed with a mind of its own.
Jack blinked in surprise.�� As he took a deep breath, still not trusting
to his sight, the chain on the manacle rattled and reminded him of his
situation; he was chained to the mast and with no way of reaching the lantern
oil that could slick his wrist.�� He let
his breath out in a whisper.��
"Hector?"
Mindless of his undressed state on the deck of
the Pearl, Hector smiled at him and held out one very healthy hand, offering
the large, gleaming fruit.�� Its green
skin was inviting and he knew, it would crunch between his teeth and give up
sweet tartness without much effort.�� His
dead lover teased, still smiling.��
"Have an apple, then?"
Licking at his dry lips, he nodded and reached
for it.
Hector stepped back and the world seemed to
darken, as if vast black clouds covered the entire sky---even as the sky
remained clear and cloudless.�� His dead
lover's face twisted and changed even as he watched.�� The skin sloughed and undulated, as if worms
moved under its surface.�� Hector's
green-blue eyes went white and gelid---the eyes of a long-dead corpse.�� The mouth that he could remember the taste
of now slid open and askew to reveal darkened teeth, as if rotting even as he
watched.��
Jack winced back against the mainmast, his mind
splintering.�� He could not find a
thought to consider---the multitude of his inner voices went silent, shocked
into disbelief.��
The apple being offered to him was held in a
skeletal claw.��
The fruit's perfect, sweet flesh was moldy and
withered, now.��
'Apple?'�� The voice asked again,
sounding still very much like Hector.
�No thanks, mate.�� He answered and was surprised at how sane it
came out, even with how his belly griped at the now-maddening sensation of
hunger and thirst.�� I'm not so hungry as I did firstly imagine.�� Persephone and all that, you know.�
The rotting visage threw back its head and
laughed, roaring with what could have been genuine mirth---that infectious
laugh of Barbossa's which he had always enjoyed---if
not for the hollow rasping echo of it.��
When the laughter finished, the corpse of his dead lover leaned
close.�� Jack pulled further back, afraid
to be touched.��
But, Barbossa didn't
stop until they were nearly nose to nose, close enough to kiss.�� The corpse had no breath, but the smell of
its maggot-infested mouth was still lethal.��
'Don't be worryin' about hunger an' th' seeds o' death, aye?��
Yer
dead already, Jack Sparrow, dead an� forgotten.�� Tis but just th' two o' us from now 'til th' ends o' eternity, ye weak-kneed goose.'
Jack mused that it was a pity he was already
mad; a good spell of mindless gibbering wouldn't go amiss in the face of
spending forever caught in a windless, waterless hell with recurring
visitations from his two betrayers on a ship devoid of rum, life, and
foodstuffs.

***

As his beloved ship crested the sand-wave, he
saw it from his perch on the forecastle rail.��
The sea, there---a mirage or hallucination, surely.�� He'd been searching this desert for
centuries aboard the Black Pearl and never encountered even the first drop of
stagnant drinking water, much less a briny deep.�� The light gleamed and danced on the surface
of this sudden ocean, smilingly beckoning him like a saucy wench.
With his kohl-lined eyes, Jack saw broken wood
bouncing on his new ocean's waters.��
Bringing his gaze down to a squint, he frowned.�� Were those people standing on the shore?��
He shook his head at the thought; twasn't nothing
but figments of his imagination here.��
While that might be intriguing now and then, it wasn't something worth
spending eternity with.�� He might be
able to endure the multiples of himself, now, with the crew they formed. �But, he
doubted it.
As the Pearl sailed down the sand and toward the
sea, Jack leaned out over the rail, clutching the bow-line.�� He realized that his hallucinations had
produced for him something more than the usual---Gibbs with the entire crew;
well, most of them---rashly stupid William Turner the Younger, the murderous
Elizabeth Swann, a dark figure that could only be Tia Dalma,
and...
Hector Barbossa,
looking just as he had at Isla de Muerta.
He'd seen Elizabeth, Will, and Hector---in
various forms and manners---many times, here.��
Wherever here was.�� But, he had never received a visitation from
Joshamee Gibbs or Cotton or Cotton's parrot or Marty
or...what were their names, the lad who constantly lost that blasted wooden eye
and the lad's matelot, the short and irritable one?
And who were the crowd of Chinese pirates with
them?
He most certainly hadn't been receiving visitations
from Tia Dalma.��
This place was hellishly boring and a visitation from the crazy witch would never have gone unnoticed.�� But, then, he had been rather remiss as of
late, in maintaining the ship's journal.��
All the entries looked the same now and what was the point in that?
Well.� If
they were here, with him, they were dead.��
Maybe.��
More likely, though, he was being plagued with hallucinations
again.�� For Tia Dalma
to be among them...perhaps, she had found a way to devil him with something
new, crossing whatever barrier lay between this and the world he'd left
behind.�� Had he left behind the
world?� He didn't quite remember the particulars
of it.� Most decades, he didn't want to
remember his last moments.
There was not much to recommend the Kraken and
its tentacles, its teeth.
Then, the Pearl was sliding into the water, its
wee crabs quite audible with their delightful squeals as the sea parted before
them and engulfed the strange grayish white crustaceans.�� The hull of his ship was back in water and
as he readied himself to swing down from the rail into the ocean's white foam
spray, he used his hand to ensure how snug his hat was.�� Wouldn't do to lose it now, aye?
Turning, he addressed his first mate, Jack
Sparrow.� "Drop anchor, Mister
Sparrow, but prepare to get under way just as soon as I return...aye?"
'Aye, Captain Sparrow!'�� His first mate, wearing naught but breeches
and a waistcoat and scarf on his long dreadlocks, answered with a sharp salute
and wheeled about to shout at the swabbies, Sparrow
and Sparrow.�� 'Drop anchor, you idiots!'
'Aye!'� They answered and were
quickly joined by the five riggers, all Sparrow within
various degrees of cleanliness and dress, who had secured the sails very
smoothly.��
Jack swayed back on his heels for a moment, still
holding the top of his hat, and watched the crew that bustled around, obeying
his order.�� It occurred to some small
part of his mind that this sort of mental industry was bad and wrong and that
he really ought to consider seeking a cask of rum as fast as humanly
possible.�� But, there were
hallucinations waiting for him on the beach, aye?�� He ought to be sociable enough---without
asking them onto the ship.�� The Pearl
was already quite infested with the like.
Wrapping his arm around a length of rope that
was tied off to the rail, Jack swung over and began letting himself down the
starboard side.�� Mayhap these new figments
of his imagination could tell him how best to reach a port where food and
spirits could be found.�� It was a long
shot, he knew---he'd been asking the same question of every figment he'd met
the last four centuries.�� But, his
father had told him very young that ignoring even one bullet was to invite
disaster.�� The law of averages
concerning the likelihood of news would bite him in the arse,
if he didn't take a moment to speak with these remarkably real-looking
hallucinations.
He mentally crossed his fingers that this lot
wouldn't want to eat him.��
Like the
last ones had.
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Whispers of Redemption