PotC fanfiction: Recollection
A bit of PotC fanfiction that came from...somewhere, I have no idea where :) I don't have a Pirates beta-reader, so apologies for any foul grammar errors. Thanks to jediowl for some very useful information (with sketches!) about sailing vessels. I want a better title, but this'll do for the time being.
Title: Recollection
Characters: Mostly Jack =)
Rating: PG, just to be on the safe side. Jack's language was only marginally better before he became a pirate ;)
Disclaimer: Jack Sparrow and any other people or things you may recognise belong to the mouse. I think.
He has seen her before.
He had ignored the thought, occupied as he had been with the cursed medallion about her throat-how did she come by that? -and with the realisation, as half a garrison of marines surrounded them, of her rather important identity. Oh, and there had been the matter of escaping from said marines. Bloody useless exercise that had turned out to be. Neglect it though he had, the fact remains that from the moment he heaved her unresisting body out of the water and deposited it unceremoniously upon the dock, the moment she threw up water around him and opened dark eyes to stare up into his face, he was struck by that sense of irritating almost-recognition that has become so annoyingly familiar over the past hours.
Now he sits detained at His Majesty's pleasure-though how old George could be happy that something has happened, the happening of which he knows nothing about, remains a mystery. Perhaps the lieutenant who brought him here with such satisfaction realised that anyone, not excepting the King, would be only too glad to house Jack Sparrow within a building in his possession. Somehow, Jack doubts it. The lieutenant looked stupid as well as smug.
He has little to do, therefore, but watch through the bars of his cell window as the last coppery light fades, and wonder where the Pearl is at this moment, and think. As his mind drifts into the backwaters of memory, he at last manages to place her pointed face and honey-coloured hair and snapping eyes. Oh, yes, he has seen them all before.
He wanders along the quays, staring wide-eyed at the vessels in dock and anchored out to sea: frigates and yawls and one magnificent great ship of the line. He is so caught up in admiration of one galleon-a fast, dainty, well-maintained thing she is-that he only becomes aware of the voices when the speakers are almost upon him. He knows from the way they speak that they are gentry, a few gentlemen escorting a party of ladies, but he ignores them. No lady, be she ever so fair, could be more worthwhile looking at than the Wicked Wench, and Jack avoids gentlemen on principle.
The gentlefolk, however, are not so accommodating; a girl's high-pitched whine is complaining about something and the raising of a male voice in his direction, a few seconds later, informs Jack that it is his presence at the dock to which she objects. But he has as much right as any man to stand here and look at the ships, and for all she knows he might be a sailor…a sailor, able to climb aboard a ship, set the canvas and fly whither he willed-free, free across the sea, to the ends of the earth if he wished…
The man shouts again, cursing Jack's birth, his imbecility and his stubborn blockheadedness. Still Jack stands, and a moment later a stone flies past his shoulder. Startled, he half-turns. There is malicious laughter behind, and a couple of vacuous but rather vicious-looking gentlemen nudge each other, one bending to the ground. Jack thinks there may be a distressed alto remonstrance, but his reflexes are ordering him to move, and he obeys.
Unfortunately, the gentleman in the blue coat is but a poor shot and the stone, aimed at the position of Jack's head three seconds previously, manages to strike the position of Jack's head now. He is stunned, breathless, blood suddenly streaming over his face, blinding him in one eye. And there is pain, and noise; ladies are screeching, he thinks. Blinking and dazed, he stares at the group along the quay. One young lady has deposited what she had been carrying into the arms of her closest companion and is hurrying…towards Jack? He attempts to flee, but somehow he has grown stupid and slow, and cannot quite manage to command his limbs. The lady reaches him, talking steadily. It is only gradually, as she flourishes a scrap of a white handkerchief in his face, that he realises she is not scolding but reassuring, trying to…comfort him? She is pressing the cloth to his brow, her other hand cool on his chin. She is a tall young lady, with great brown eyes and dark golden hair curling from beneath the brim of her hat. There is no doubt that she is well worth looking at, but something in her gaze manages to disconcert Jack; he looks beyond her and blinks, wondering if the blow he received has impaired his vision. Ah, no, he is not seeing double: 'tis only the dark-haired lady who carries her own parasol and reticule as well as those of her friend, his Good Samaritan. He wonders vaguely if the golden lady owns a donkey. He would rather she put him in a boat.
The dark lady is shouting, he thinks, though he cannot tell why. The lady attending to his head calls something and the dark girl approaches, still speaking angrily over her shoulder. She pulls another handkerchief from one of the reticules and hands it to her friend. There is enough of a resemblance between her angry features and the concerned ones of Jack's golden lady to make him guess them to be sisters.
"Is something wrong?" he asks, nodding toward the departing girl.
"Keep still!" the golden lady chides, but above him her mouth smiles. "It is nothing we need concern ourselves with. She says nothing they do not deserve."
"-thing I would expect from a man who couldn't put a bullet through the five of clubs at ten yards and-"
"Well, that was perhaps a trifle low," the golden lady admits, the smile now touching her eyes. She has bound the second, stronger square of linen about his forehead, and is gazing critically at her work.
"'Tis not a deep cut; that fool Beckett hit you only a glancing blow, I think. Painful as anything and bleeds dreadfully, of course, but not serious. How does it feel?"
Jack puts a cautious hand to the makeshift bandage.
"Grand," he pronounces. It hurts like hell, but the dizziness has passed off and the blood no longer flows to obscure his sight, so it is not an actual lie. He is more angry now than anything else, but the dark girl seems to be achieving such success in the way of scolding, out-arguing, insulting and generally humiliating the young gentlemen that he decides to leave her to her amusement. The second man, too, is rather large-the stupid, brawny type, Jack assesses scornfully, who would spend hours fencing and boxing but couldn't think his way out of a potato sack. Best to allow the lady to deal with the matter, for the present.
"I am so very sorry that this happened to you," the golden lady says. "It was unconscionable behaviour." She casts a glance of withering scorn back at her companions, where the angry lady is now forcing the pair of young men backward with the intensity of her words and an occasional prod with her parasol.
"I suppose I ought to make her stop," the golden lady observes regretfully. "She is my little sister," she explains, confirming Jack's guess, "and she has been wanting to give those idiots Featherstonehaugh and Beckett a piece of her mind for months. I suspect she is enjoying this opportunity rather too much…however, they must stop running from Mary and come and beg your pardon!"
"Oh," Jack says swiftly, "there's no need for that, love-miss-my lady." He has realised that he does not wish them to beg his pardon, for with the golden lady looking on he supposes he would have to give it, and he is not entirely sure he wants to do that. Not sure at all, in fact. Some instinct, too, tells him that it would be a good idea not to get too close to the little young man with the dark hair. The lady is frowning, however, so he hastily adds, "They've been humiliated enough, I think, shown up by your sister like that."
She grins, a sudden, sidelong twist of her mouth.
"Perhaps you are right. All the same, it was infamous conduct and I should hate you to think ill of us…"
Now she glances at the reticule the dark sister left with her, moves as though to put a hand inside and hesitates. Jack stiffens; he knows she is going to offer him money and he won't take it. Borrow, yes; steal, certainly; begging is something altogether different and he has no desire to take her charity.
"Don't worry, miss-I know you're of a different sort to them," he says, rather awkwardly.
She looks at him thoughtfully, then slips the strap of her reticule over her wrist and smiles once more. He smiles back at her, a quick flash of teeth in his tanned face. She reaches out to tug a lock of his untidy black hair in farewell.
"Goodbye, funny boy," she says, turning away.
"Au revoir, lady!" he replies cheerfully.
The group moves away, the rest of the young ladies clearly relieved to escape the embarrassing scene and the one in the green and yellow whining again. The dark young man, ignoring her, turns to stare at Jack as they go, his expression oddly cold and vindictive. Jack stares back, holding his gaze until the man looks away. The sisters, too, cast a final glance in Jack's direction; the golden one nods and half-waves. He is not certain, but he fancies the dark one murmurs, "Poor child."
Later, when he removes the impromptu bandage, he discovers that one handkerchief is monogrammed M, the other E.
But the golden lady had not been Miss Swann, of course; at a guess he would say the Governor's daughter has a couple of years yet to wait before she attains her majority and so would not even have been born, that day on the dock. He is convinced, nonetheless, that memory served correct; the resemblance was there sure enough, too strong for coincidence, and he could almost fancy that he and the golden lady had met again.
Satisfied for the moment with the progression of that particular train of thought, Jack shifts position, settling back against the cell wall, crossing his booted legs at the ankle and tipping his hat over his eyes.
Now, if he could just ascertain why that enthusiastic young blacksmith had seemed so bloody familiar…
Title: Recollection
Characters: Mostly Jack =)
Rating: PG, just to be on the safe side. Jack's language was only marginally better before he became a pirate ;)
Disclaimer: Jack Sparrow and any other people or things you may recognise belong to the mouse. I think.
He has seen her before.
He had ignored the thought, occupied as he had been with the cursed medallion about her throat-how did she come by that? -and with the realisation, as half a garrison of marines surrounded them, of her rather important identity. Oh, and there had been the matter of escaping from said marines. Bloody useless exercise that had turned out to be. Neglect it though he had, the fact remains that from the moment he heaved her unresisting body out of the water and deposited it unceremoniously upon the dock, the moment she threw up water around him and opened dark eyes to stare up into his face, he was struck by that sense of irritating almost-recognition that has become so annoyingly familiar over the past hours.
Now he sits detained at His Majesty's pleasure-though how old George could be happy that something has happened, the happening of which he knows nothing about, remains a mystery. Perhaps the lieutenant who brought him here with such satisfaction realised that anyone, not excepting the King, would be only too glad to house Jack Sparrow within a building in his possession. Somehow, Jack doubts it. The lieutenant looked stupid as well as smug.
He has little to do, therefore, but watch through the bars of his cell window as the last coppery light fades, and wonder where the Pearl is at this moment, and think. As his mind drifts into the backwaters of memory, he at last manages to place her pointed face and honey-coloured hair and snapping eyes. Oh, yes, he has seen them all before.
He wanders along the quays, staring wide-eyed at the vessels in dock and anchored out to sea: frigates and yawls and one magnificent great ship of the line. He is so caught up in admiration of one galleon-a fast, dainty, well-maintained thing she is-that he only becomes aware of the voices when the speakers are almost upon him. He knows from the way they speak that they are gentry, a few gentlemen escorting a party of ladies, but he ignores them. No lady, be she ever so fair, could be more worthwhile looking at than the Wicked Wench, and Jack avoids gentlemen on principle.
The gentlefolk, however, are not so accommodating; a girl's high-pitched whine is complaining about something and the raising of a male voice in his direction, a few seconds later, informs Jack that it is his presence at the dock to which she objects. But he has as much right as any man to stand here and look at the ships, and for all she knows he might be a sailor…a sailor, able to climb aboard a ship, set the canvas and fly whither he willed-free, free across the sea, to the ends of the earth if he wished…
The man shouts again, cursing Jack's birth, his imbecility and his stubborn blockheadedness. Still Jack stands, and a moment later a stone flies past his shoulder. Startled, he half-turns. There is malicious laughter behind, and a couple of vacuous but rather vicious-looking gentlemen nudge each other, one bending to the ground. Jack thinks there may be a distressed alto remonstrance, but his reflexes are ordering him to move, and he obeys.
Unfortunately, the gentleman in the blue coat is but a poor shot and the stone, aimed at the position of Jack's head three seconds previously, manages to strike the position of Jack's head now. He is stunned, breathless, blood suddenly streaming over his face, blinding him in one eye. And there is pain, and noise; ladies are screeching, he thinks. Blinking and dazed, he stares at the group along the quay. One young lady has deposited what she had been carrying into the arms of her closest companion and is hurrying…towards Jack? He attempts to flee, but somehow he has grown stupid and slow, and cannot quite manage to command his limbs. The lady reaches him, talking steadily. It is only gradually, as she flourishes a scrap of a white handkerchief in his face, that he realises she is not scolding but reassuring, trying to…comfort him? She is pressing the cloth to his brow, her other hand cool on his chin. She is a tall young lady, with great brown eyes and dark golden hair curling from beneath the brim of her hat. There is no doubt that she is well worth looking at, but something in her gaze manages to disconcert Jack; he looks beyond her and blinks, wondering if the blow he received has impaired his vision. Ah, no, he is not seeing double: 'tis only the dark-haired lady who carries her own parasol and reticule as well as those of her friend, his Good Samaritan. He wonders vaguely if the golden lady owns a donkey. He would rather she put him in a boat.
The dark lady is shouting, he thinks, though he cannot tell why. The lady attending to his head calls something and the dark girl approaches, still speaking angrily over her shoulder. She pulls another handkerchief from one of the reticules and hands it to her friend. There is enough of a resemblance between her angry features and the concerned ones of Jack's golden lady to make him guess them to be sisters.
"Is something wrong?" he asks, nodding toward the departing girl.
"Keep still!" the golden lady chides, but above him her mouth smiles. "It is nothing we need concern ourselves with. She says nothing they do not deserve."
"-thing I would expect from a man who couldn't put a bullet through the five of clubs at ten yards and-"
"Well, that was perhaps a trifle low," the golden lady admits, the smile now touching her eyes. She has bound the second, stronger square of linen about his forehead, and is gazing critically at her work.
"'Tis not a deep cut; that fool Beckett hit you only a glancing blow, I think. Painful as anything and bleeds dreadfully, of course, but not serious. How does it feel?"
Jack puts a cautious hand to the makeshift bandage.
"Grand," he pronounces. It hurts like hell, but the dizziness has passed off and the blood no longer flows to obscure his sight, so it is not an actual lie. He is more angry now than anything else, but the dark girl seems to be achieving such success in the way of scolding, out-arguing, insulting and generally humiliating the young gentlemen that he decides to leave her to her amusement. The second man, too, is rather large-the stupid, brawny type, Jack assesses scornfully, who would spend hours fencing and boxing but couldn't think his way out of a potato sack. Best to allow the lady to deal with the matter, for the present.
"I am so very sorry that this happened to you," the golden lady says. "It was unconscionable behaviour." She casts a glance of withering scorn back at her companions, where the angry lady is now forcing the pair of young men backward with the intensity of her words and an occasional prod with her parasol.
"I suppose I ought to make her stop," the golden lady observes regretfully. "She is my little sister," she explains, confirming Jack's guess, "and she has been wanting to give those idiots Featherstonehaugh and Beckett a piece of her mind for months. I suspect she is enjoying this opportunity rather too much…however, they must stop running from Mary and come and beg your pardon!"
"Oh," Jack says swiftly, "there's no need for that, love-miss-my lady." He has realised that he does not wish them to beg his pardon, for with the golden lady looking on he supposes he would have to give it, and he is not entirely sure he wants to do that. Not sure at all, in fact. Some instinct, too, tells him that it would be a good idea not to get too close to the little young man with the dark hair. The lady is frowning, however, so he hastily adds, "They've been humiliated enough, I think, shown up by your sister like that."
She grins, a sudden, sidelong twist of her mouth.
"Perhaps you are right. All the same, it was infamous conduct and I should hate you to think ill of us…"
Now she glances at the reticule the dark sister left with her, moves as though to put a hand inside and hesitates. Jack stiffens; he knows she is going to offer him money and he won't take it. Borrow, yes; steal, certainly; begging is something altogether different and he has no desire to take her charity.
"Don't worry, miss-I know you're of a different sort to them," he says, rather awkwardly.
She looks at him thoughtfully, then slips the strap of her reticule over her wrist and smiles once more. He smiles back at her, a quick flash of teeth in his tanned face. She reaches out to tug a lock of his untidy black hair in farewell.
"Goodbye, funny boy," she says, turning away.
"Au revoir, lady!" he replies cheerfully.
The group moves away, the rest of the young ladies clearly relieved to escape the embarrassing scene and the one in the green and yellow whining again. The dark young man, ignoring her, turns to stare at Jack as they go, his expression oddly cold and vindictive. Jack stares back, holding his gaze until the man looks away. The sisters, too, cast a final glance in Jack's direction; the golden one nods and half-waves. He is not certain, but he fancies the dark one murmurs, "Poor child."
Later, when he removes the impromptu bandage, he discovers that one handkerchief is monogrammed M, the other E.
But the golden lady had not been Miss Swann, of course; at a guess he would say the Governor's daughter has a couple of years yet to wait before she attains her majority and so would not even have been born, that day on the dock. He is convinced, nonetheless, that memory served correct; the resemblance was there sure enough, too strong for coincidence, and he could almost fancy that he and the golden lady had met again.
Satisfied for the moment with the progression of that particular train of thought, Jack shifts position, settling back against the cell wall, crossing his booted legs at the ankle and tipping his hat over his eyes.
Now, if he could just ascertain why that enthusiastic young blacksmith had seemed so bloody familiar…