Little bit of pirate fic
This one's been rattling around in my head for ages and finally agreed to be finished. To celebrate, I made a new icon to go with it.
Many thanks to jenthetypsy for her beta work on the fic and to geek_mama_2 for being my title beta!
Crossposted to 100_situations in response to prompt 77, administer, from my table, and to pirategasm.
~~ Cicatrix ~~
The hut's interior was crowded, currently accommodating four people in an area barely comfortable for one. One body, in particular, occupied more than its fair share of the available space.
Large, reticent and strong as an ox, Stoner had been selected for his discretion as well as his strength, and Jack had resembled a rag doll when the man carried him from the ship. But, Gibbs felt, far worse than watching the limp form of his friend borne by the hulking crewman was seeing Jack spread out across the furniture like so much soiled linen while the old woman washed and scraped at his festering arm.
The unmoving form of Jack Sparrow seemed too small, nearly inconsequential, and Gibbs' hand slipped into his pocket, seeking reassurance from the familiar shape of his flask. He'd known Jack only the year past, but a year pirating was time enough to know a fellow fairly well. He'd seen Sparrow full of wild euphoria and bloodlust following a successful raid, seen him morose and in his cups, and most every point in between. Yet the one thing he had never seen, and, Holy Mother, it looked so wrong, was Jack, lying still and silent as the grave.
The crone smeared the wound with a viscous amber liquid and smoothed the ragged edges of skin together as best she could, for the rents refused to meet up whole and neat. Next, Sparrow's forearm was bound with a diaphanous substance that clung to itself as if by some magic. She examined her work and gave a satisfied grunt, then wrapped the arm from elbow to fingertips in a questionable looking cloth.
"Ya don't touch that bindin', any of yas. And bring 'im back in two days' time. By then I'll be able to see if he'll be keepin' the arm."
Gibbs took a quick pull on his flask, but still the words came out barely above a whisper. "K- keep it?"
"Aye, tha's right. Don' know now, do I? Either all the rot's in tha' bowl," she peered at the basin's contents, the result of her ministrations, and sniffed, "or mebbe there's some so deep it won' come out. If it's all in the bowl, the arm stays with 'im. If not..." The old woman shook her head as she shuffled toward the hovel's door, bloody dish in her hands.
"Should ha' come to me sooner," she said as she flung the bowl's contents into the underbrush and turned, muttering, "damn cack-brain pirates, thinkin' they know how t'mend themselves."
Gibbs' stomach roiled at the thought of Jack losing his arm, and the worry added a cutting edge to his voice. "Tell us what caused it."
"But ya said ..."
Gibbs shook his head in frustration, "when we last made port he left the ship, saying he'd some business to take care of himself. Days later, just afore the captain weighed anchor, he staggered back, arm bound in the bloody rag. He's said next to nothing in the week since."
"Won't tell ya? Shamed, he mus' be," and the old woman threw back her head, laughing, providing an excellent view of gaps left by teeth long gone. The look on Stoner's face, and the knife that had appeared in his hand to defend his shipmate's honor, demanded a more serious answer. The healer sobered.
"Cain't tell now. Happened too long ago. May could be burns, or somethin' boiling hot tricklin' down the arm," she said while making a minor adjustment to the bandage. "Could ha' been cut wit somethin' not made for cuttin', or could ha' been sommun cut wi' a nice sharp knife an' tried to take the skin for themself. Like I tell ya, is too old to know 'lessen 'e says himself."
* * * * *
The single lantern hung above the table, wick low but still throwing enough light to show the cups on the table were empty.
"Thanks," Stoner said, taking the bottle Gibbs proffered and pouring. "Reckon he'll tell us in a day or so, once the danger's behind 'im."
Gibbs chuckled and shook his head, worry and fatigue combining so that for once he refused to don the storyteller's mantle. "We'll never know the truth of it, lad. All we'll hear is a new piece o' the legend of Jack Sparrow."
>^..^<
Many thanks to jenthetypsy for her beta work on the fic and to geek_mama_2 for being my title beta!
Crossposted to 100_situations in response to prompt 77, administer, from my table, and to pirategasm.
~~ Cicatrix ~~
The hut's interior was crowded, currently accommodating four people in an area barely comfortable for one. One body, in particular, occupied more than its fair share of the available space.
Large, reticent and strong as an ox, Stoner had been selected for his discretion as well as his strength, and Jack had resembled a rag doll when the man carried him from the ship. But, Gibbs felt, far worse than watching the limp form of his friend borne by the hulking crewman was seeing Jack spread out across the furniture like so much soiled linen while the old woman washed and scraped at his festering arm.
The unmoving form of Jack Sparrow seemed too small, nearly inconsequential, and Gibbs' hand slipped into his pocket, seeking reassurance from the familiar shape of his flask. He'd known Jack only the year past, but a year pirating was time enough to know a fellow fairly well. He'd seen Sparrow full of wild euphoria and bloodlust following a successful raid, seen him morose and in his cups, and most every point in between. Yet the one thing he had never seen, and, Holy Mother, it looked so wrong, was Jack, lying still and silent as the grave.
The crone smeared the wound with a viscous amber liquid and smoothed the ragged edges of skin together as best she could, for the rents refused to meet up whole and neat. Next, Sparrow's forearm was bound with a diaphanous substance that clung to itself as if by some magic. She examined her work and gave a satisfied grunt, then wrapped the arm from elbow to fingertips in a questionable looking cloth.
"Ya don't touch that bindin', any of yas. And bring 'im back in two days' time. By then I'll be able to see if he'll be keepin' the arm."
Gibbs took a quick pull on his flask, but still the words came out barely above a whisper. "K- keep it?"
"Aye, tha's right. Don' know now, do I? Either all the rot's in tha' bowl," she peered at the basin's contents, the result of her ministrations, and sniffed, "or mebbe there's some so deep it won' come out. If it's all in the bowl, the arm stays with 'im. If not..." The old woman shook her head as she shuffled toward the hovel's door, bloody dish in her hands.
"Should ha' come to me sooner," she said as she flung the bowl's contents into the underbrush and turned, muttering, "damn cack-brain pirates, thinkin' they know how t'mend themselves."
Gibbs' stomach roiled at the thought of Jack losing his arm, and the worry added a cutting edge to his voice. "Tell us what caused it."
"But ya said ..."
Gibbs shook his head in frustration, "when we last made port he left the ship, saying he'd some business to take care of himself. Days later, just afore the captain weighed anchor, he staggered back, arm bound in the bloody rag. He's said next to nothing in the week since."
"Won't tell ya? Shamed, he mus' be," and the old woman threw back her head, laughing, providing an excellent view of gaps left by teeth long gone. The look on Stoner's face, and the knife that had appeared in his hand to defend his shipmate's honor, demanded a more serious answer. The healer sobered.
"Cain't tell now. Happened too long ago. May could be burns, or somethin' boiling hot tricklin' down the arm," she said while making a minor adjustment to the bandage. "Could ha' been cut wit somethin' not made for cuttin', or could ha' been sommun cut wi' a nice sharp knife an' tried to take the skin for themself. Like I tell ya, is too old to know 'lessen 'e says himself."
* * * * *
The single lantern hung above the table, wick low but still throwing enough light to show the cups on the table were empty.
"Thanks," Stoner said, taking the bottle Gibbs proffered and pouring. "Reckon he'll tell us in a day or so, once the danger's behind 'im."
Gibbs chuckled and shook his head, worry and fatigue combining so that for once he refused to don the storyteller's mantle. "We'll never know the truth of it, lad. All we'll hear is a new piece o' the legend of Jack Sparrow."
>^..^<