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Legends of the Treasure Child: Sparrow's Nest	By : Sparrowbirdie Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > Slash - Male/Male Views: 5265 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Carribbean and I do not own Troy. I make no profit from this story.

Chapter List
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The dungeon was brimming with soldiers. Across the arched ceiling the first rays of the morning light painted it pink. The Roman soldiers were laughing hard, pointing and mimicking the tired man who was stumbling about in their midst. The purple robe on his back was soft and comforting compared to the hard brick floor he'd spent the night on. The thorns prodded into the flesh on his head. He could feel the blood run down along his temples. Oddly enough, the stinging thorns cleared his tired mind. He was not ashamed of his tears. He knew why he was undergoing this torment. And had it not been for the conviction in his eyes, the soldiers would have laughed harder. The fact was – and this was something which they all had in the back of their minds and which they could not shake – that the conviction in the Jew's eyes hadn't wavered for a second throughout the night. It was a knowledge which bore cold down their backs. The weary prisoner stumbled about, trying to keep his balance. He shifted, and turned as if he suddenly saw someone he recognized out of the corner of his eye. Looking straight at the person sitting alone, huddled in a dark corner, Christ tilted his head upwards, drew back his shoulders and straightened his back. The cloak fell off his shoulders. The light shimmered brightly. The bleak surroundings disappeared and faded, and Christ emerged from the light clad in bright white, wearing a golden crown on his head. John looked up from where he'd been sitting. He scanned the apparition through a veil of dark, greasy hair. And what he saw made him draw back in fear.

Christ opened his mouth. A sword seemed to materialize and protrude from between his lips. It fell to the ground just in front of John's feet.

“I am the lamb.”

John awoke with a shudder, the soft, commanding voice of the Christ still ringing in his ears. It took him a moment, then he heard Jack's soft snoring on the other side of the room, and John remembered where he was.

I am the lamb.

John rubbed his face with his palms and laid down. Staring into the ceiling for quite some time, he focused on regaining control of his breath.

I am the lamb.

Forgotten images from a time long since past, flooded his inner eye.

Christ came to him at the island of Patmos. A second time. They lay with each other there. Reliving the moment in the desert, once Christ had rejected Lucifer and awoken John from the red veil.

I am he who lives, and was dead, and behold, I am alive forevermore. And I have the keys of Hades and of Death.

The moment spun around and around in John's head. He got up, walking blindly until he could draw in the fresh scent of sea and air. He closed the door to the cabin behind him. Quietly. The image of the brightly clad figure of Christ still burned in his mind. Blinding him with its divine light.

I am the lamb. I have been sacrificed for the sake of humanity. Your sins have been washed clean by my blood. God in Heaven prevails.

John shuddered as the moist air stung his naked torso. He wasn't wearing any socks. He walked down the narrow staircase to the main deck. Hoping the clear salty air would brush away the persistent, calm voice in his head, John walked on nimble feet.

At Patmos, Christ had admitted he would be the one to break the first seal. The first of the seven seals which held the Gates of Hell shut. With all of the seven seals gone, all that would be left, would be to open the gates themselves. And that task belonged to John.

He had tried to warn them. All though he had done as Christ had commanded and written to the seven churches of Asia, John had tried to warn them. But somewhere along the way, politics had warped it all. The message had been lost.

Christ had spoken, back then, and while he had been speaking, he had been holding a sword made from seven stars in his right hand and a blue, shimmering crystal in the other …! It was a memory which lingered in his mind, as clear as the day of the event itself. Refusing to go away, pounding through his mind.

John remained by the railing of The White Swann. He closed his eyes tight and focused in on the crystal. Where had he seen it before? Where?!

Then, the revelation struck him. The blue crystal! He had seen it, ten years ago, in a stray thought which he had picked up from a priest locked inside a coffer! The memories of the boarding of Le Neptune flooded his mind. He had ravaged the French soldiers, slaughtered them and eaten his way below deck. There, he had killed off the captain and sodomized the deacon on top of the travelling chest. Olivier Demont, was the deacon's name, and John had claimed him as his slave that day more than ten years past. Inside the traveling chest, the deacon's master had been hiding in an attempt to lure the demon. A minister, a priest who had been clutching this blue, shimmering crystal which matched the one Christ had been sporting at the isle of Patmos! It couldn't be, could it?! One of the lost Tears of God?! Oh come on.

John opened his eyes again.

Think about what you're doing here, Aloysius. If you help Dad find the gems, then you help him get the means to slay your brother. Your own brother! Saieros!

John shoved the thought away. He didn't want to be thinking about that. If Abraham could be trusted to sacrifice his firstborn son Isaac, then John ought to be willing to let go off his brother. And let's face it; John told himself, Saieros was anything but an innocent lamb.

“All hands on deck!” John shouted to the nearest sleeping deck guard. It was a sturdy man in his thirties, who had been with The White Swann ever since she was built, ten years ago, in honour of Mrs. Elisabeth Swann Turner. The first mate, James Sterling Black, was up on his feet in a matter of seconds, relaying the order, shouting it about as he jogged below deck. Black's loyalty was unwavering. A cold blooded killer slash pirate and gourmet chef in one. The deck of The Swann soon flooded with crew members who ran about to their stations, trimming sails, tying up loose items and climbing the ropes upwards to the masts. The door to the captain's cabin flung open and Jack Sparrow strode out looking like he was ready for about anything. Seeing the men running about, setting The Swann at full canvas and operating just like pirates ought to, put a smile to his face. Out of old habit, he wandered over to the rudder, already feeling how the ship was picking up speed.

“Where to, Captain Sparrow?” he shouted down to his son.

“Ah, Captain Sparrow. Good of you to join us!” John put his right index finger to his mouth and sucked on it. Pointing it upwards into the air afterwards, he hesitated before replying: “That way. Port, then straight away until where the sun sets” John replied rather vaguely.

“Spoken like a true pirate” Jack replied and turned the wheel. With a few leaps, John joined him at the bridge. A sailor with still sleepy eyes watched the half demon's ascent, and rolled his eyes.”Why do they always have to have their creative moments in the middle of the night? Couldn't this wait till morning?! Where are we going anyway?!” The sailor scratched his bum and yawned.

“Cap Francais!” John replied with a wide grin. “Let's hope we're luckier with the wind this time around. ”

“Not a chance” the sailor mumbled dejectedly with his back to the bridge and the captains, “everything is French down there. Even the wind!”

The wind which filled their sails across the north Atlantic must have been British. It took The White Swann five days to cross the vast perilous ocean. Five days without storms. Only sun and lots of wind. John dreamt each night. The re-occurrence was so steady it made John paranoid. Across time, his former lover spoke to him of days past, reminding him of his debt to Jahve. The second coming was in deed happening. John went to bed each night dreading that soon, the dream would be more than a dream. It would be reality unfolding right in front of him. By the fifth day, John admitted to himself that he feared Christ's coming. The voice of Christ was compelling enough in itself. In his presence, every man or demon went weak in the knee, and John feared he would lose control. And there was no touching the son of God. It was like trying to touch an endangered flower. John could not afford to lose control. He imagined he would never be able to forgive himself if he was unable to protect his father.

In the evenings, Jack stayed submersed in his book. He read through the pages with great difficulty, not understanding half of it. Medieval English wasn't exactly common any more. He noticed that John often stood by himself, immersed in thoughts. The expression on his face told Jack that whatever was going on in his mind, it was dark and sombre. There would be moments when John would come and sit close to Jack, and embrace him. Holding his father tightly for a long time, John seemed like a little boy who was lost, seeking refuge within his father's strong arms. Sometimes, it was replaced by something else. A stronger need for comfort. And John would bury his nose beneath his father's chin and smell Jack's skin. Sometimes they kissed. Sometimes Jack gave more than a stroke on Johns skin.

Far off the Haitian coast, on a secure distance from French frigates, The White Swann lowered the anchor. The crew had grown accustomed to seeing John shed his clothes without further ado every time he was about to plunge into the water. Being mostly straight men, they took little notice of his perfect and muscular body, the tanned chest and taut thighs. Aye, John had muscles in all the right places, and as soon as he removed his undergarments to reveal to the sun a fairly large member, it came alive, swelled and stood at attention. Like John, it just loved the open air, the fresh breeze on the sensitive skin. The salty sea. The freedom. It was simply in the blood of the Sparrow. Jack ventured outside with the children, making sure they couldn't fly off, securing the harnesses around their torsos. Checking the sky several times, Jack anticipated the cursed Saieros to show up at any moment. He watched as John made himself ready. It was always strange to see his offspring in the nude. They were so human, still they were different on the inside. Jack had given birth to that body. John was his firstborn, and as an adult he had explored Jack's body in the dim candlelight in the captain's cabin of the Black Pearl. It had been something forbidden, yet it had happened during a time of great desperation.

Focusing on the dark depths below the hulls, John felt his skin tingle with the promise of transformation. Growing scales and web between his fingers, John took a deep breath before leaping from the railing. He made a perfect dive, hands head first. Striking the surface, plunging into the deep blue Haitian waters, his legs melted away, filtered flesh and bone. The explosion of magic set off a chain reaction of changes. In a matter of microseconds, his backbone softened and grew thicker, elongating itself and melting together with the bones of his thighs, transforming into one long backbone reaching all the way back to his webbed toes. His forearms grew long, razor-sharp spines, and between them, more web to help increase speed and manoeuvrability. Protective film covered his eyeballs, and his throat grew gilds on either side below his ears. The tip of the long fishtail John had grown, kept on growing, fanning outwards until it formed a great fan-shape in golden hues. One stroke, and John picked up speed. Another stroke and he was gone into the darkness of the watery depths.

Searching the bottom for an hour finally gave results. There it was – Le Neptune – which John had been responsible for sinking some ten years ago. The watery conditions surrounding it, had left its mark. Covered in sand and mud which had settled after the sinking, she was still glorious to behold. The wreck was swarmed with ghosts of soldiers which John had killed. Linked to their last resting place, they were forced to float about, never able to return to France. Their bones lay scattered about, picked clean by scavenging fish. Remnants of hair, clothing and flesh could be seen,but John paid no heed to the dreary sight. He swam below, reliving the events ten years earlier, remembering the stray thoughts he'd picked up. The chest ought to still be there. And rightly so, in the dark of the storage hold, he found it.

Seeing the chest brought back memories about the deacon. John had to grin. Right here, right in front of this chest, John had buried himself to the hilt inside the deacon. He could still remember the screams and the French pleas for help. Taking the priest's virginity had been a pure pleasure. He focused on the chest, and it opened. There, lay a man, crouched with his head bent down towards his knees. He was wearing the robes of Catholic priests. And in his hand shimmered a deep blue, tear-shaped crystal. John pulled backwards. The pure light made him sick to his stomach, and in a moment of panic he realised he hadn't thought about how to extract the stone. He felt dizzy and extremely unwell. Losing his balance in the water, John drifted down. His sight was going white, blinding him with extreme white light. He tried shutting his eyes, but the light before his inner eye was even stronger, searing through him. He felt weightless and disorientated, knowing only that the light was pulling him in. John winced and writhed like a fish caught on dry land. He knew the light! It was the light of God himself, the Holy spirit, and if John was pulled into it, it would destroy him. It was a battle between faiths and it raged on for several minutes. Then John's thoughts went to Jack. He couldn't let go now, he couldn't lose. He was doing this for Jack. Dying now was like cutting Jack's throat. And the baby's. Suddenly the pull of the Spirit ended. John felt like he could breathe again. He lay silent and limp for several minutes before he mustered the strength to tear a hole in the hull behind the coffer. Still shaking from the encounter, John managed to conjure a current which picked up the coffer and pushed it ahead of him and in the direction of The White Swann. John kept his distance. That thing in the coffer was less threatening now that the lid was shut, but still …! It was like trying to guide a great white shark, knowing it could turn on a shilling and attack. John shuddered. He felt like he was an insolent little boy who had stepped on God's toes and gotten a serious slap in the face. It felt as if the object in the coffer was draining him of power. Below the hull of The Swann, John mobilized his strength and levitated the coffer. It felt immensely heavy. He could feel it down to his very marrow: This was an object which didn't want to be found. It had been stolen from the heart of Istanbul, or the old city of Constantinople as it was previously known as, then transported across land and sea by a catholic priest. It crossed John's mind that this could be bigger. It couldn't be possible for a single priest and his helper to successfully steal an artefact of such importance, put their arses on a ship and return unhindered to France. Only someone like an archbishop or a pope would have connections to set up something like this. The Tear of God from Constantinople would be considered the rightful property of the East Orthodox Church. Since they considered the Catholic church to be heretics, there was a good chance that Jack and John once again had gotten themselves caught in the middle. And then there was of course God. He wouldn't want the tears to be found either. So it would seem only prudent that once the tear had been stolen, he would twist fate and make sure it came into the hands of a half demon. Where it would be safe from harm. John shut his eyes tight and felt annoyance bloom inside his chest. Oh joy.

Jack was surprised to find John so reluctant towards the coffer. He was explicit in his orders about the twins not touching it. He seemed almost frightened when Jack said he felt drawn to it.

“You mustn't touch it” John begged his father, “it's the Holy Spirit! Think about your unborn child, it – it could kill it!”

John referred to the fact that the Turner within Jack had been made through the use of demon magic. There was a minor part of John in him.

Jack – being who he was – went and opened the coffer anyway. He saw John cringe behind him, fall to his knees and instantly vomit. The half demon dragged himself away to the railing, where he remained. Jack looked amazed at his son. “It makes you – sick? Really sick?”

John nodded.

“You never get sick!”

“Like I said, it's a piece of The Holy Spirit. ”

“So you're telling me” Jack said, fiddling with a bag and a stick, “that the remaining thirty-two tears of God also are – what? – pieces of The Holy Spirit?” Jack turned and showed the bag to his son and the crew. “And you can't touch a single one of 'em, or you will be annihilated? You can't even be near it?”

John nodded.

“And for all we know it could kill – him” Jack nodded towards his belly. “Well, that's a problem now, isn't it. We can retrieve the stones but we cannot touch them.”

John nodded again.

“We've had worse odds” Jack grinned widely. John sighed. The old pirate wasn't going to stop. There was never talk of quitting, with Jack. He was as persistent as the sun which rose every morning. When he first set his mind on something, he went all the way. Why steal a dingy when you can steal a galleon? Jack's latest proverb was an incarnation of his very piraty mind, a reminder of the fact that one often had to think outside the box.

Jack watched as the one of the crewmembers wrapped the tear into a cloth. He handed it to John. John tried to accept it, but he faltered and backed away. Jack stroked his beard contemplatively and said;

“Where's mister Gibbs, these days?”

“I reckon he's still at Land's End overseeing repairs on the Black Pearl. Probably half drunk. As per usual” John said with a bleak smile. “What of The Crimson? Can we hide it there?”

“No. I prefer to have it here, however dangerous it is. If Saieros comes about, I want a way of repelling him. We'll lock it inside with the weapons.”

Once it was done, Jack held on to the second key to the armoury. He stood by the railing and watched in silence as they dumped the coffer with the dead man in it, overboard. Some of the men crossed their chests, took off their hats and spoke a small prayer. It was their right. Here, on The White Swann, Christianity and Demon worshipping lived side by side. The twins were sailing in the air next to the railing, training their balance. More than once they nearly crashed against the railing. Mastering the art of flying was like learning how to ride a bike. John came up to them and leaned onto the railing, watching the evening sun melt into the watery horizon.

“I've been doing a bit of reading, John. ”

“Oh no. ”

“We need to go to Hell. More specifically, the second plane of Hell. According to legend, the beings there – elves, if I am correct – have a place of evil. Now, if hellish elves have a place of evil, then that must mean that there's something good down there, savvy?”

“I've heard of it” John rubbed his face in his palms and sighed. “It's an evil which resides at the peak of a mountain. It means certain death to all demons.”

“You can get us there, right?”

“Chances are that Saieros might be around. And you are now four months pregnant. ”

“I'll be fine. God himself may not be watching my back, but what do I need him for when I have you?!”

“Have the crew sail this bucket to the Mediterranean. To the Aegean sea.”

“Why?!”

John sighed. He would rather not have to describe how he'd just had another flash of insight – or foresight, or vision of the future – which showed him The White Swann outside the Turkish coast. It was something that happened quite often. It was a mini-version of the Triple Goddess' powers, and it had helped him through many a situation. In this case, he knew that The Swann needed to be there as it would be close to their exit point from Hell. “It's necessary that they be there in case we end up in the ocean. ”

He watched Jack turn and bark orders. The first mate, a sturdy chap from Bath who had thirty years worth of sailing experience, was quick to comprehend and take the order further to his crew. He reminded Jack greatly of Will in so many ways. Not at all by appearance but by the way he handled the crew.

It was all fine during the daytime. The twins kept Jack busy. And he busied his mind by bossing the crew around, being the captain, making sure they respected him and kept on their toes. But at night. When all was quiet, the children were asleep and the darkness gave life to his imagination, Will seemed to crawl back into his mind. Jack had to be careful, he kept telling himself. Careful so he didn't make Will his saviour. That could never be. He could never lay that burden on Will Turner. Will had to be able to live freely now, with his Elisabeth. There was no one who could save Jack from the savage master he had been forced to serve. Perhaps except only Jack himself.

The offspring in his belly was a live kicker at night. It was a great consolation to feel the little Turner bouncing about in his belly. It gave Jack hope. But for what? He couldn't help but to think that it was insane to be doing this. To have someone else's baby. Was it really worth it, to condemn an innocent child to forever live as a fugitive just so Jack could have a silent rebellion against his master?! The thoughts churned in his mind, and he often brought them into his sleep. Condemnation. Salvation. There was only a fine line between the two.
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Legends of the Treasure Child: Sparrow's Nest